t  net 


Death  and  The  Reporter 


AN  ALLEGORY 


"And  I  will  put  enmity  between  thee  and  the  woman,  and  between  thy 

seed  and  her  seed  ;  it  shall  bruise  thy  head,  and  thou  shall 

bruise  his  heel."— Genesis  3  :  15. 


MONFORT  &  CO.,   PRINT. 

CINCINNATI 

IQI2 


Copyright,  1912,  by 
JAMES  PORTEOUS 

English  Rights 
Reserved 


PREFACE. 

Several  years  ago  a  now  prominent  railroad  official 
said  to  the  writer:  "If  you  want  to  know  what  the  rail- 
road will  do,  imagine  yourself  in  the  position  of  the 
railroad,  and  see  what  you  would  do." 

Somewhat  used  to  the  hard  lines  of  practical  business 
methods,  which  in  these  days  are  ever  changing,  and 
which  can  be  used  but  for  a  short  time  without  change, 
I  have  often  looked  with  admiration  at  the  Book  of  Re- 
vealed Truth,  admiring  much  the  plan  or  manner  in 
which  it  gives  to  all  an  equal  opportunity — giving  to  the 
savage  an  equal  chance  with  the  most  cultured;  appeal- 
ing to  and  gaining  friends  and  followers  from  all  the 
various  walks  of  humanity,  both  young  and  old,  in  all 
ages,  in  every  country,  without  regard  to  the  ever-chang- 
ing state  of  knowledge  and  the  development  of  Science. 

A  book  which  would  tell  of  the  beginning  of  things 
— even  of  the  earth — without  writing  a  treatise  on 
geology  and  kindred  sciences  (I  doubt  if  such  a  volume 
could  have  been  understood  through  all  the  ages  the 
Bible  has  been  used),  and  that  would  hold  the  minds  of 

213217S 


4  PREFACE. 

men  as  no  other  book  ever  has,  during  the  darkest  ages 
as  well  as  in  these  times  when  the  light  is  breaking,  and 
which,  I  doubt  not,  will  hold  them  even  in  the  highest 
development  of  Science;  and  when  the  human  race, 
through  the  influence  of  this  book,  has  t>een  more  fully 
developed,  and  men  have  a  wider  and  more  compre- 
hensive view  of  the  world's  history,  they  may  then  realize 
that  the  manner  in  which  the  Bible  is  written  is  the  best 
possible,  all  circumstances  considered. 

If  I  have  dared  to  imagine  and  portray  the  motives 
of  some  of  the  main  actors  therein,  I  claim  no  patent  or 
advantage,  but  give  to  every  one  the  same  opportunity. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


DEATH  AND  THE  REPORTER 


Reporter: 

Professor  of  the  soothing  art, 

Who  stills  for  aye  the  troubled  heart, 

Mine  is  a  reporter's  task; 

So  you  will  pardon  when  I  ask: 
Have  you  any  meeting  times? 
Or  meet  you  oft  as  day  declines, 

With  your  partners  in  the  trade 

Of  killing  men,  and  jokes  parade 
Gruesome  and  cruel? 

Or  is  your  way  all  dark  and  bare 
Of  everything  but  fixed  despair? 
Forever  wandering  alone, 
As  miserable  as  the  home 
You  ofttimes  wreck. 

Death: 

Presumptuous  man!     Has  now  the  fitful  reign 
Of  reason  left  your  troubled  brain, 

That  thus  you  dare  to  talk  with  me? 
But  your  profession  is  an  ancient  one, 
I  much  respect ;  and  could  I  overcome 

My  loathing  for  your  race,  I  might  you  tell 
Strange  truths,  until  your  head  would  swell. 
Eons  on  eons  ago,  as  thus  you  speak  of  time, 
I  did  affiliate  somewhat  with  your  line. 


6  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

It  would  be  difficult  even  to  explain ; 
We  did  some  business,  though,  without  the  name. 
But  should  I  tell  you  of  the  things 
Which  your  suggestion  to  me  brings, 

Do  you,  half  God,  half  beast, — a  man, 
Think  for  a  moment  that  the  plan 

Of  vast  Creation  you  can  grasp? 
You  who  in  sleep  pass  half  the  time — 
That  you  should  knowledge  gain,  seems  almost  a  crime. 
So  little  you  can  spare,  from  babyhood  till  when 
My  business  calls  for  you,  and  then 

What  do  you  know ;  canst  tell  it,  if  you  know. 
It  is  not  so  with  us — we  never  sleep; 
Witness  the  ceaseless  cry  of  those  who  weep. 
But  night  and  day,  age  after  age,  we  ever 
Learn  more  and  more,  and  drink  of  Lethe's  waters 
never. 

It  is  not  so  with  you — 
A  poor,  untutored  creature  of  a  day. 

Reporter: 

That  may  be  so;  I'm  glad  in  olden  times 
You  had  to  write  about  events  and  crimes, 

If  that  is  what  you  meant.     Our  business,  as  you 
know, 

Takes  no  excuse.     I  always  have  to  go 
Where  others  shrink;  so  now  will  it  please  you 
That  I  write  up  this  interview? 

Have  you  any  comrades  here 
(Unseen,  unheard,  yet  very  near)  ? 
That  must  be  so;  for  many  a  one 
Has  gone  the  way  he  would  not,  and  might  shun, 
But  for  some  power  like  you, 
Even  in  this  short  interim. 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  7 

Now  tell  me.     When  you  meet 

Your  busy  partners  going  down  the  street, 

Do  you  stop  and  talk?    Or  do  you  meet  sometimes 
In  an  appointed  place,  comparing  notes,  designs, 
And  general  business,  as  the  doctors  do? 
When  prospects  are  not  good  and  cases  few, 

You  never  raise  the  price,  and  never  did  combine 
Overproduction  to  restrain  with  fine 

Or  other  penalty.    But  when,  you  meet — 
The  place,  the  time,  and  what  you  do — 
That  is  what  I  want  to  know. 

Death: 

You  crazy  sample  of  a  crazy  race, 
Another  Babel  might  confound  your  face. 

Men  get  more  saucy  now  in  threescore  years 

Than  when  the  Flood  silenced  their  ribald  jeers. 
But  should  I  tell  you  of  a  meeting,  when 
All  creatures  gathered — higher  grade  than  men ; 

Not  one  was  left,  from  Seraph  next  the  throne 

To  vilest  reptile  of  hell's  torrid  zone, 
Language  might  fail  ideas  to  convey; 
Even  could  you  think,  as  think  you  will  some  day. 

Yet  I  will  try  (and  you  must  listen  well) 

The  crisis  in  eternal  truth  to  tell. 
But  in  your  language  can  I  e'er  portray 
The  main  events  of  vast  eternity? 

Can  words  or  imagery  which  you  know 

Describe  those  scenes  of  long  ago? 
Even  were  you  versed  in  heaven's  lore, 
I  still  would  hesitate  before 

I  should  essay  the  task. 

How  can  I  leave  the  impress  on  your  mind 
Of  what  did  happen,  long  before  your  kind 


g  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

Indorsed  the  great  rebellion  which  gave  birth   to 
time, 

And  wrecked  and  ruined  eve/y  hope  of  mine? 
You  see — but  now  I  talk  with  mortal  man — 
Where  to  begin,  so  you  can  grasp  the  plan, 

Or  catch  a  glimmering  idea — where, 

I  hardly  know,  though  surely  I  was  there. 
So  much  do  I  in  vision  now  recall, 
Where  will  I  start?    I  have  been  through  it  all. 

Now,  then,  if  you  Eternity  can  grasp, 

Or  one  small  portion  not  your  mind  to  rasp, 

Before  the  little  globe  on  which  you  stand, 

Or  any  of  the  stars  you  think  so  grand, 
Or  any  of  the  stars,  whose  grandeur  gone, 
Their  luster  vanished,  now  in  darkness  roam, 

Were  star  mist;  or  ever  even  in  the  mind 

Of  any  of  the  angel  kind 
The  dream  that  this  outlying  waste 
Would  be  perchance  in  their  possession  placed, 

A  universe  to  frame  as  now  you  see — 

Grasp  you  the  idea,  or  will  it  be 
Too  much  for  you?    Well,  then,  I  really  fear 
We  have  no  units  and  no  cycles  here 

To  express  the  portion  of  eternity  that's  cursed 

To  me.    What  is  to  come  would  burst. 

Reporter: 

Well,  now,  Professor,  never  mind  the  date, 

For  hazy  figures  are  the  thing  I  hate. 

Begin  your  story  "Once  upon  a  time." 
It  is  the  facts  that  figure  in  a  crime. 

Death: 

There  was  no  time — no  rolling  orb  to  mark 
The  flight  of  eons.    There  was  nothing  dark. 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  9 

Beamed  in  effulgent  light  the  Great'/  Am; 

Shone  with  resplendent  glory  every  one. 
Your  language  fails  again;  yes,  even  mine 
Fails  to  convey  the  brightness  of  that  time. 

Pardon  the  use  of  words  where  they  do  not  express. 

But  time  will  soon  begin — it  is  the  end  of  bliss. 
But  say,  what  do  you  do  when  bright  ideas  rise; 
Not  earth-born  ones,  but  beaming  from  the  skies? 

You  pull  them  down,  and  gauge  them  by  that  speck, 

Your  little  brain,  and  does  it  not  object? 

Supposing,  now,  that  strength  of  mind 
(All  else  being  equal)  you  did  find 

Depends  on  size  of  head; 

And  then  suppose  that  yours,  instead 
Of  this  small  speck,  was  mountain  size, 
Or  even  like  a  globe  that  rolls  the  skies; 

There  might  be  something  you  now  dimly  grasp, 

Or  can  not  see  at  all,  not  even  rasp, 
In  scintillation,  which  then  might  be 
As  plain  to  you  as  any  A,  B,  C. 

Or  are  you  of  a  scoffing  cast — 

Giggle  and  jabber  loose  and  fast 
At  things  you  can  not  comprehend, 
Since  your  horizon  marks  your  end; 

Yourself  the  only  great  /  Am, 

The  only  center  of  the  plan — 

Standard  to  measure  God  and  man? 

Ah!  if  you  only  all  could  see 

What  these  few  words  suggest  to  me! 

It  broke  Eternity  in  two, 

Manned  hell  with  a  rebellious  crew; 
Made  me  a  wanderer  with  the  scythe, 
Killing  the  weary  and  the  blithe; 


IO  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

It  tried  to  wreck  the  throne  of  love, 
Brought  the  Almighty  from  above — 

Bemeaned  him  to  atone  for  you. 

Now,  then,  if  you  would  dimly  grasp 
A  hazy  outline  of  the  past, 

There  is  a  point  afar  off  yet, 

Known  to  the  master  of  the  pit 
And  to  omniscient  God  alone; 
And  though  discussed  much  from  the  throne 

Of  hell,  I  still  admit  the  mystery 

That  hangs  around  this  part  of  heaven's  history. 
But  do  you  know,  that  mystery  to  me 
Is  but  the  proof,  as  you  may  see, 

That  we,  the  creatures  (not  creators),  are 

Bounden  on  all  sides,  near  or  far, 
According  to  the  size  we  were  create? 
Beyond  these  bounds  is  mystery;  if  elate 

We  cross  these  bounds,  we  find 

Impossibilities,  incongruous  facts,  that  blind 
And  leave  us  so  completely  lost  in  mist 
That  we  may  even  doubt  if  we  exist. 

But  still  I  think  that  you  can  see  quite  plain 

God  did  create,  and  also  without  blame, 
Angels  of  light,  with  freedom  so  complete, 
The  choice  of  good  and  evil  in  them  meet. 

But  where  was  Evil  until  then? 

And  what  is  Evil?  where  and  when 
Did  it  evolve?  is,  I  suppose, 
The  question  now  that  you  propose. 

But  you  are  in  a  bad  condition 

To  figure  out  that  proposition. 

Can  you  grasp  the  situation? 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER-  II 

Biased  from  childhood  until  now, 
Who  can  see  clearly  from  that  brow? 

Ingrained  in  every  thought  you  breathe, 

Sins,  like  a  second  nature,  weave 
Their  tangled  webs,  blur  and  distort 
The  truth  of  which  you  hear  report; 

And  many  a  mind  they  paralyze, 

The  truth  might  find,  if  otherwise; 
And  are  so  quiet,  though  so  strong, 
You  think  that  all  but  you  are  wrong. 

Is  it  not  foolishness  for  men 

To  think  that  they  should  have  such  ken, 
That  they  can  prove  more  truths  in  years 
Than  angels  do  in  centuries? 

How  do  you  mortals  e'er  intend? 

How  do  you  think  that  you  will  spend 
Eternity,  if  now  you  know  it  all, 

And  nothing  have  to  learn? 
Yet  many  a  man  where  I  have  been 
Has  talked  as  eons  he  had  seen; 

And  some  so  positive  were  they 

(These  upstart  creatures  of  a  day), 
That  when  they  get  where  spirits  dwell, 
They  will  have  something  there  to  tell; 

Some  ism  of  their  massive  brain 

They  will  endeavor  to  explain. 
Will  they? 

But  what  is  Evil?     Still  you  ask, 
Then  search  the  record  of  the  vast 
Eternity  that's  rolling  past. 

When  God,  the  great  Creator,  made 

The  laws  which  firmaments  obeyed, 
One  subtle  law  he  made  for  all — 
The  law  which  made  the  apple  fall. 


12  DEATH  AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Not  one  so  large  dare  disobey, 
Nor  one  so  small  evade  it  may; 
But  ever  as  they  swing  around, 
Each  to  the  other  bows  profound; 
Millions  of  miles  may  be  apart, 
Yet  feel  as  if  each  had  a  heart; 
That  to  one  family  they  belong, 
Bound  by  that  subtle  law  so  strong. 
Not  only  on  their  surface  belt — 
It  to  their  very  core  is  felt. 
It  finds  no  rock  too  hard  to  pierce, 
Ether  too  rare  or  fire  too  fierce; 
But  it  must  every  part  pervade. 
It  almost  seems  that  He  who  made 
And  gave  it  birth,  made  it  to  show 
To  his  creation  here  below 

How  omnipresent  God  could  be, 
Although  His  face  we  can  not  see. 
(Before  that  God  made  gravitation, 
Love  was  the  tie  that  bound  creation; 
And  love  may  yet  creation  bind, 
When  gravity  is  out  of  mind.) 

But  now  suppose  that  some  high  rock, 
Some  overgrown  and  ponderous  block, 
Some  globe  that  always  has  obeyed, 
Should  break  that  law,  and  on  a  raid 
Of  fearful  wreck  and  carnage  go, 
As  you  would  say  down  here  below; 
And  further  still,  let  us  suppose 
That  as  the  outlaw  onward  goes, 
Not  only  other  stars  it  smash 
With  wreck  and  ruin  and  fearful  crash, 
But  all  the  stars  feel  with  the  stroke 
That  the  great  family  tie  is  broke, 


WSATH  AND  THE  REPORTER.  13 

As  now  you  know  they  always  feel 
Just  where  the  other  star  does  wheel, 

And  all  its  actions  part  control 

As  if  the  masses  had  a  soul. 
But  now  they  know  the  law  is  gone; 
Each  one  pursues  its  way  alone; 

No  longer  waltz  the  wheeling  maze; 

Crash,  and  embrace  with  lustful  ways, 
Or  skulking,  their  own  way  pursue, 
A  sulking,  God-forsaken  crew. 

No  longer  has  each  globe  a  heart, 

But  flies  to  pieces  every  part; 
And  chaos  rules  where  laws  sublime 
Once  reigned.     To  think  it  is  a  crime. 

Perhaps  you  say  stars  can  not  think, 
But  feel  as  cool  when  on  the  brink 

Of  some  grand  smash,  as  when  they  froze, 

As  the  glacial  era  slowly  rose; 

And  if  they  warmed  upon  embrace, 
These  lumps  of  matter  have  no  face, 

No  hands,  no  ears,  no  eyes,  or  nose, 

To  tell  them  how  the  mercury  goes; 
No  brain  to  figure  out  the  laws, 
Nothing  to  say,  "It  is  because"; 

As  this  is  that,  that  must  be  so; 

The  whole  idea  is  no  go. 

Well,  then,  put  on  your  thinking  cap 
And  hit  these  little  thoughts  a  rap. 

Had  the  Creator  been  content 

With  only  making  firmament; 

Content  with  rolling  balls  in  space, 
With  none  to  wish  to  see  his  face; 

Content  with  orbs  of  fearful  size, 

Tremendous  matter  without  eyes; 


14  DEATH  AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Content  with  making  laws  to  rule, 

Which  none  could  break  and  be  a  fool; 
Content  with  being  the  /  Am, 
With  none  to  see  the  wondrous  plan 

Of  vast  creation  —  good  and  great, 

But  blind  —  he  might  have  sat  in  state; 
And  none  could  tell,  as  none  would  know; 
But  dead  around  their  courses  go. 

Now  (for  you  are  supposed  to  think) 

Be  all  attention,  do  not  shrink, 
And  see  if  in  your  muddled  brain 
The  truth  I'm  trying  to  explain 

Dawns,  in  a  feeble  way,  perhaps; 

Yet  the  idea  you  may  catch. 
For  well  I  know,  though  sin-curst  sore, 
The  Spirit,  in  the  days  of  yore, 

Breathed  in  thy  nostrils  the  breath  of  life. 

Knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  and  of  strife, 
Were  earned  for  you  very  soon — 
Can  you  escape  from  that  harpoon? 

But  still  I  know,  though  buried  deep, 

Godlike  ideas  in  you  sleep; 
And  Godlike  sense  of  right  and  wrong, 
However  bound  by  Satan's  thong, 

Can  never  altogether  be 

Crushed  out ;  but  when  the  truth  you  see, 
An  innate  feeling  struggles  hard 
To  claim  its  friendship  and  regard. 

Well,  then,  let  us  the  two  compare: 
A  God  who  leaves  creation  bare 
Of  higher  life,  else  should  he  dare 

Make  heads  that  think  and  hearts  that  will, 

They  knowing  *»ot  the  fearful  ill 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  1 3 

That  breaking  God's  laws  must  needs  entail, 

To  keep  their  proper  place  might  fail. 
Or  such  a  God,  as  now  we  fear, 
Who  made  all  in  their  proper  sphere; 

Not  only  matter  gross,  and  space, 

But  every  creature,  every  race; 
Some  almost  Godlike,  who  obey; 
Some  who  were  Godlike,  but  said  "Nay," 

And  wrought  the  ruin  that  you  see, 

Entailed  on  you,  usurped  by  me. 
You  say  the  latter;  you  are  right; 
The  difference  is  as  day  and  night. 

Then  listen  to  me,  mortal  man: 

Long,  long  ere  space  or  time  began ; 
Long,  long  before  the  star-mist  graced 
Heaven's  wilderness,  or  rarest  ether  chased 

The  twinkling  light  streaming  from  the  throne ; 
Long,  long  ere  chaos  in  tumultuous  mass 
(If  such  you  think  e'er  came  to  pass) 

Held  carnival  in  space; 
Long,  long  ere  ever  there  was  mind 
Of  any  other  name  or  kind, 

The  Eternal  God  existed. 
The  limit  of  each  mind  appears 
In  grasping  at  those  endless  years. 

The  more  you  grasp,  and  grasping  strain, 

Recedes  the  past,  you  search  in  vain — 

All  limit  is  within  our  brain. 
Yes,  when  a  part  would  grasp  the  whole, 
The  part  that's  grasped  betrays  that  soul. 

Angels  God  created  then, 

Who,  if  described  to  mortal  men, 

They  would  attempt  to  worship  them. 


j6  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTED 

Oh,  how  beautiful  the  ages! 
But  all  hell  within  me  rages 

When  I  think;  but  I  never, 

I  the  only  tie  did  sever, 

And  now  broken  is  forever. 

How  to  tell,  and  not  describe    it! 
Remorseless  hell!  who  can  abide  it? 

But  you  know  how  gravitation 

Permeates  the  mute  creation; 
How  it  binds  the  parts  together 
With  a  tie  that  none  can  sever. 

Oh,  that  such  a  tie  had  merit! 

It  could  bind  immortal  spirit! 
But  it  binds  no  higher  creature 
Than  the  mongrel  of  coarse  feature, 

In  God's  image  first  created 

Out  of  earth,  so  strangely  fated. 
But  the  tie  with  which  God  bound  us 
To  himself  and  all  around  us, 

Mortal  man,  for  want  of  better 

Words  to  speak  or  words  to  letter, 

In  his  sin-benumbing  fetter, 
Calls  it  love!     Such  name  is  given 
The  highest  force  in  earth  or  heaven; 

An  older  force  than  gravitation; 

The  strongest  force  in  all  creation. 
A  force  that  your  old  book  hath  said 
Changed  names  with  God,  who  all  things  made. 

Think  what  else  God  e'er  created, 

With  such  honor  to  be  sated. 
Yea,  when  he  to  living  mortals 
Gave  a  glimpse  through  heaven's  portals, 

There  in  all  his  glory  reigning, 

He  described  himself,  by  naming 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  17 

The  one  chain  by  which  he  bound  us 
To  himself,  and  all  around  us; 

Chose  it  from  all  the  hosts  above, 

And  said  to  mortals,  "God  is  love." 
Love  is  to  the  human  mind  the  same 
As  gravity  to  things  of  grosser  name! 

God's  overwhelming  love  made  every  spirit  glow 

With  love  first  to  his  God,  then  to  all  else  below. 

This  overflowing  love  bound  all  in  ecstasy. 
But  this  force,  though  strong  as  ever, 
Will  not  bind  where  heart  says  "Never"; 

Will  not,  can  not  be  a  fetter — 

Binds  no  one  who  says  that  "better 
I  can  do."     Freemen  only  it  will  bind ; 
In  slaves  a  heart  it  can  not  find. 

And  hearts  alone  its  bondage  feel; 

Outside  of  hearts  it  must  congeal. 
But  the  bonds  which  freemen  bind 
Can  be  looked  at  with  the  mind ; 

Be  compared  and  analyzed, 

Be  rejected  or  be  prized; 
Will  not  stay  when  heart  says  "Go," 
Will  not  bind  when  heart  says  "No." 

In  this  force  with  which  he  bound  us 
To  himself  and  all  around  us, 

One  there  was  of  highest  mind — 

The  brightest  of  the  angel  kind ; 

The  first  creation  of  God's  hand, 
The  first  of  all  the  glorious  band; 

Created  long  before  the  rest, 

Of  all  God's  gifts  he  had  the  best. 
But  it  should  well  be  understood, 
God's  gifts  are  for  the  common  good. 

Those  who  get  most  have  most  to  give, 

Learned  we  in  Old  Eternity. 

2 


l8  DEATH  AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Who  join  not  in  the  distribution, 
God's  gifts  will  sour  in  retribution, 
Learned  we  in  Time. 

He  with  the  self -existent  One, 

The  Father,  Spirit,  and  the  Son, 
Existed  eons  long  before 
We  were  created  to  adore. 

But  when  it  was,  or  how  it  came, 

Envy  did  his  heart  inflame; 

'Tis  getting  well  outside  my  scope — 
Hardly  within  my  range  of  thought. 

But  I  have  heard  it  somewhere  said, 

When  Love's  analysis  was  made, 

When  he  this  force  did  analyze — 
Purest  found  in  all  the  skies — 

When  he  found  how  it  did  bind 

All  to  God  of  every  kind — 

Although  it  was  no  slavish  chain, 
True  love  is  free,  free  must  remain — 

Ecstatic  joy  bound  every  one; 

'Twas  static  love — the  immanence  of  God — 

This  bond  of  love. 
He  saw  and  wondered  how  God  felt 
When  every  one  before  him  knelt 
Bound  by  such  love. 

Full  well  he  knew  Love's  secondary  glow ; 

The  primal  incept  could  he  ever  know. 

He  dreamed,  and  wondered  how  t'would  feel 
Should  every  one  before  him  kneel, 

Bound  by  some  force  to  own  him  King, 

Great  sovereign  of  everything. 

He  dreamed,  then  thought  how  he  might  bind  us 
To  himself,  could  he  but  blind  us. 

He  dreamed,  then  wished,  then  glanced  above, 

And  God,  from  envy,  ceased  to  love. 


DEATH    AND   THE    REPORTER.  1 9 

This  is  sin — to  cease  to  love. 

Sin  is  but  the    lack  of  love, 
As  darkness  is  the  lack  of  light — 
And  the  comparison  is  right. 

Witness  how  your  fallen  race 

Ever  seek  with  earnest  face 
For  something  that  they  feel  they  lack : 
Each  glittering  bauble,  taste  and  smack; 
Yet  how  unhappy,  until  back 

They  get  the  love  that  they  have  lost. 

Redeemed  for  them  at  such  a  cost. 
Witness  how  within  me  rages 
Lack  of  love  or  hate  for  ages; 

Hell  was  heaven  compared  with  feeling 

Hate  where  love  was  used  to  kneeling, 
As  it  used  to  kneel  above 
Ere  I  sinned  or  ceased  to  love. 

But  you  say,  Is  all  this  sinning. 

All  this  drinking,  swearing,  gaming. 
All  this  theft  and  peculation, 
Adultery  and  fornication, 

Murder,  war,  and  baby  killing, 

Slander,  lying,  ballot  rilling, 
And  a  thousand  other  wrongs 
That  you  handle  without  tongs; 

Are  they  all  but  lack  of  love 

To  Almighty  God  above? 

Listen,  and  I  will  explain 

A  little  more  of  Satan's  game. 

When  he,  the  highest  in  creation, 

Had  adopted  Love's  negation, 
As  he  loved,  so  now  he  hated — 
Highest  power  of  evil  rated. 

Envy  still  his  heart  does  cherish, 

Envy  with  despair  does  relish; 


2O  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Envy,  hatred  and  despair, 

Unholy  trinity,  reign  there. 

In  that  heart  once  purest  feeling, 
Now  with  wreck  and  ruin  reeling. 

But  the  Trinity  of  Love, 

The  Almighty  God  above, 

Only  reigns  as  his  creator, 
Only  reigns  because  his  maker; 

Only  reigns  because  that  never 

Anything  existed  ever 

That  by  him  was  not  created; 
There  is  nothing  that  is  fated. 

Was  there  ever  any  creature, 

Made  he  any  in  his  feature, 

Could  this  mystery  explain — 
Grasp  existence  save  in  name? 

Did  ever  you  existence  doubt? 

Prove  it,  I  can  not  help  you  out. 

Say  laughing  fools  and  sober  sages, 
God  ne'er  existed  in  the  ages. 

But  to  their  own  existence  prove, 

Knew  they  ever  the  first  move? 
Existence  even  unto  me 
Is  mystery  of  mystery. 

But  that  I  am,  and  I  am  lost, 

I  have  found  out  to  my  cost. 
Sin  may  be  but  a  negation, 
Pain  but  mark  some  castigation, 
Trouble  index  alteration, 

Doubt  they  exist  though  only  may 

Crazy  mortals  of  a  day. 

Writhing  deep  and  deeper  still, 
Hate,  despair  and  every  ill, 

Obliteration  seek  forever; 

Says  the  Almighty  never,  never. 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  21 

This  is  all  for  lack  of  love 

To  the  Almighty  God  above; 
Hate,  instead  of  love's  solace; 
Despair,  instead  of  love's  embrace. 

Pain,  misfitting,  cruel  thing; 

Disjointed  law  has  cruel  sting. 
The  broken  law  with  which  God  bound  us 
To  himself  and  all  around  us, 

Saw  Satan  and  did  analyze; 

The  broken  law  was  such  a  prize. 
He  found  as  if  old  gravitation 
Had  been  broke  and  shocked  creation, 

And  made  chaos  out  of  space, 

And  negatived  creative  grace; 
Found  he  had  smashed  the  only  tie 
Binds  joy  to  time  as  time  does  fly, 

If  of  eternity  in  song 

You  speak  as  time  a-rolling  on. 
Found  he  had  torn  the  tie  that  bound 
Himself  to  God  and  all  around, 

And  that  no  longer  any  tie 

Bound  those  to  him  he  fooled  on  high, 
But  hate,  despair,  ruin  and  wrong, 
Repellant  force,  a  fearful  thong. 

He  found  that  all  had  felt  the  shock 

When  the  great  bond  of  love  was  broke; 
Gleamed  in  his  heart  one  wild  despair, 
He  dreamed  it  had  been  felt  up  there, 

Even  where  the  eternal  God  above 

Knew  there  was  some  one  less  to  love. 
Despaired,  not  hoped,  despaired  in  vain ; 
It  might  in  some  way  have  caused  pain. 

But  who  can  judge  of  the  I  Am? 
Can  any  angel,  any  man? 


22  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

He  who  immensity  does  fill 

Is  far  above  the  creature's  skill. 

But  who  can  tell  how  that  shock  felt 
To  those  before  the  throne  who  knelt; 
To  those  whose  love  we  all  had  known, 
And  joined  with  them  in  many  a  song? 
With  whom  we  many  a  time  discussed 
Creative  joy,  creative  trust, 
And  heaven's  loveliness  explained — 
Cursed  be  the  feeling  that  I  named. 

But  listen,  mortal,  or  I  tell; 
You  think  it  only  is  in  hell; 
I  think  that  it  is  over  all 
That  sin  has  cast  a  fearful  pall. 

Witness  how  many  a  smiling  babe, 
Who  never  sinned,  yet  seeks  my  aid 
To  rid  it  from  the  ills  of  life, 
From  broken  laws  and  fearful  strife. 
And  so  thinks  Satan;  he  a  race 
Would  ruin  if  he  thought  the  face 
Of  his  Creator  would  beam  less, 
Or  pain  his  countenance  express. 

For  that  heart,  once  filled  with  love, 
Now  seethes  with  hate  to  Him  above. 
Now  you  see  all  Satan's  game, 
And  how  he  played  I  will  explain. 

When  he  the  broken  law  surveyed 
And  saw  the  ruin  he  had  made; 

When  he  knew  Love's  subtle  force 

From  him  forever  had  divorce; 

He  felt  a  void  within  his  heart, 
An  aching  void  with  a  fearful  dart; 

A  shameless  and  repulsive  thing ; 

A  shapeless  mass  with  horrid  sting — 


DEATH  AND  THE  REPORTER.  2 

That  nameless  mass  there  sat  in  state; 

'Twas  nameless  then,  but  now  called  Hate. 
He  looked  again;  he  had  a  mind 
The  brightest  of  the  angel  kind, 

And  many  a  time  on  high  commission 

Buoyant  had  felt  by  the  permission 
Of  Him  whose  love  makes  duty  plain — 
Every  command  a  source  of  gain. 

Buoyant  felt  he  full  many  a  time, 

Where  talents,  love  and  duty  chime, 
To  investigate  a  subtle  theme, 
Entangled,  intricate  or  mean. 

When  God  unseen  the  heart  supports, 

Who  can  doubt  of  the  reports? 

But  now  he  sees  those  tangled  laws — 
Some  broken,  some  that  had  no  flaws; 

A  fearful  mix  to  analyze — 

So  hard  he  works  and  hard  he  tries. 
The  broken  law  of  love  he  found, 
The  law  which  broke  with  such  rebound. 

It  tore  from  every  heart  untrue, 

And  left  for  aye  the  rebel  crew. 
He  found  this  law  had  joy  entwined, 
And  love  and  joy  were  of  one  mind. 

No  rebel  crew  could  them  embrace; 

Loose  one,  the  other  need  not  chase. 
Found  they  had  chosen  that  peaceful  realm 
Where  envious  foes  can  not  o'erwhelm; 

Found  he  had  chosen  a  fearful  way 

Of  ruin,  misery  and  dismay. 
And  still  he  worked  as  only  he 
Who  next  the  Lord  in  mind  should  be. 

But  soon  he  missed  that  buoyant  sense 

Of  Love's  support,  the  longing  grew  intense; 


24  DEATH  AND  THE  REPORTER. 

He  searched  and  found  it  was  not  there, 
And  nerved  his  heart  with  grim  despair. 
And  Hate  within  him  deeper  still 
Buried  and  nerved  his  desperate  will. 

He  found  there  was  another  law, 

Strong,  ever  active,  without  flaw; 

A  law  he  even  could  not  break — 
A  subtle  law,  which  sat  in  state, 

And  held  him  with  a  powerful  grasp, 

And  bound  him  with  its  galling  clasp, 
And  tied  him  to  the  very  throne, 
And  He  who  ever  sits  thereon; 

The  law  which  says:    "Thou  shalt  exist, 

And  never  from  thy  place  be  missed." 
When  the  all-searching  eye  of  God 
Would  offer  joy  or  ply  the  rod, 

You  can  not  from  his  presence  flee, 

You  can  not  even  cease  to  be; 
Ever  unveiled  before  his  face, 
Must  feel  his  pleasure  or  disgrace. 

This  law  saw  Satan,  and  he  nursed 

Revenge  as  if  his  head  would  burst. 

Revenge!     But  who  had  done  him  wrong — 
Exalted  highest  of  the  throng 

Of  those  who  worship  'round  the  throne, 

In  mind  and  power  next  God  alone? 
Yet  even  when  he  sin  conceived, 
And  from  God's  service  was  relieved, 
Why  was  it  that  he  had  to  leave? 

He  tried  to  ruin  all  the  rest; 

To  make  hell  of  heaven  tried  his  best; 

And  this  to  me  is  no  mere  jest. 

And  even  when  he  was  expelled, 
And  the  rebellion  had  been  quelled, 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  25 

Yea,  even  then,  reluctant,  God 

Seemed  grieved  that  he  must  use  the  rod — 
Deferred  it  to  a  far-off  day, 
Left  Satan  loose  to  wend  his  way; 

Witness  the  ruin  of  your  race — 

Almost  the  Godhead  in  disgrace. 

Revenge,  where  there  has  been  no  wrong, 

Is  the  next  thing  you  look  upon. 
But  know  that  the  time  since  Satan  fell, 
Compared  to  the  time  he  loved  so  well, 

Is  not  as  one  hour  to  a  million  years, 

As  heaven's  record  now  appears. 
You  said  you  did  not  wish  with  time 
To  unnerve  that  brain  of  thine; 

Yet  surely  you  would  like  to  know 

About  how  long  that  was  ago; 
How  many  times  around  the  sun 
This  ball  of  yours  its  course  would  run. 

But  such  a  clock  would  never  last; 

I've  seen  them  wear  out  in  the  past — 
Many  a  time. 

Then  how  can  I  the  date  express — 
How  the  long  years  in  language  dress — 
When  first  his  swaddling  bands  apart 
Time  tore,  and  chilled  us  to  the  heart, 
Till  God  created  gravitation, 
Which  we  supposed  meant  aggravation 
Of  our  trouble? 

All  he  has  done  since  first  we  fell, 
We  think  is  done  our  hearts  to  quell; 

As  if  it  were  for  us  alone 

All  edicts  issue  from  the  throne. 


26  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

He  at  that  time  created  matter, 
The  shining  stuff  abroad  did  scatter 
Over  the  part  of  space  you  see, 
And  further  than  your  search  can  be. 
And  then  his  angels  had  a  time 
Whirling  and  massing  all  the  shine; 
The  stars  you  see,  and  many  more 
Whose  light  is  out,  whose  life  is  o'er, 
And  some  that  are  so  far  away 
Their  light  won't  reach  here  in  your  day 

Of  course  we  saw  the  work  begin, 
And  quietly  stood  and  took  it  in; 
That  is,  we  stood  a  certain  time, 
Watching  the  things  you  call  sublime; 
Watching  to  see  if  we  could  find 
Some  fault  of  the  angelic  mind. 

For  well  we  knew  there  was  but  One 
Makes  no  mistake  as  eons  run; 
And  none  but  the  Eternal  King 
Is  always  right  in  everything; 

And  only  his  omniscient  power 
Can  run  the  universe  an  hour. 
However  carefully  we  start 
To  do  our  best  and  play  our  part, 
We  creatures  always  leave  our  mark, 
Imperfect  as  it  is, 
So  different  from  his. 
Should  all  created  powers  combine 
To  emulate  the  Power  divine, 
To  run  creation's  vast  domain, 
Their  efforts  all  would  be  in  vain. 
The  aggregate  of  all  they  know 
Could  never  make  the  systems  go; 
For  we  must  think  and  we  must  try, 
And  ever  find  the  reason  why. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  2J 

Not  so  with  God. 

He  makes  the  cause  produce  results ; 
To  do  his  will  each  force  exults ; 
And  no  one  dares  to  disobey, 
Even  had  he  power  to  say  nay. 
God  sees  each  corpuscle  of  blood 
Your  heart  throws  forth  in  gushing  flood  ; 
He  knows  the  destiny  of  each — 
The  course  that  destiny  to  reach, 
Which  every  drop  will  take. 
What  do  you  know  ?     Can  you  explain 
How  blood  which  nourishes  the  brain 

Fathers  your  thought?     Or  can  you  tell, 
When  everything  is  working  well, 
How  many  corpuscles  'twill  take 
To  write  a  book? 

Oh,  man!     So  proud  in  act  and  whim, 
Little  you  know  what  is  within! 

How  small  a  part  of  thyself  run, 

Yet  boast  as  if  you  were  the  one, 

And  only  one. 

How  in  our  eyes  thy  greatness  shrivels; 
You  are  the  laughing  stock  of  devils. 

We  are  bad,  but  you  are  weak. 

We  know  for  weakness  where  to  seek! 
'Tis  not  in  God. 

And  so  we    watched  and  watched  them  well ; 
It  was  a  change  from  lower  hell, 

A  change  from  those  infernal  parts, 

Cherishing  the  vile  within  our  hearts, 
To  nurse  with  hell's  malignant  gnaw 
The  hate  that  filled  each  devil's  maw. 

Closely  we  searched  the  various  laws 

To  see  if  they  had  any  flaws ; 


28  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

All  forms  of  heat,  each  subtle  force, 

Whatever  plays  on  matter  gross; 

The  gravity  with  which  'tis  bound, 
And  others  that  would  you  astound; 

Many  you  have  never  named, 

As  their  existence  ne'er  inflamed 
Your  half-cracked  skull. 
We  looked  on  for  quite  a  while, 
And  ventured  not  the  plans  to  rile; 

We  watched  them  closely  from  the  start, 

And  then  we  thought  to  do  our  part; 
For  who  can  tell  what  the  /  Am 
Sees  in  the  future  of  a  plan? 

Sometimes  things  kept  going  wrong; 

We  let  them  know  where  we  belong. 

Sometimes  we  made  a  fearful  smash, 
And  systems  mixed  with  awful  crash. 

Thus  things  went  on  for  quite  a  while — 

I  see  you  are  inclined  to  smile; 

But  ne'er  a  smile  or  thought  of  lark 
Entered  the  fallen  rebel  heart. 

But  do  you  know  that  over  all — 

Over  the  great,  over  the  small — 

There's  One  presides,  and  just  so  far 

Thou  shalt,  no  further — stay  just  where  you  are. 

O'er  all  the  plans  of  men  and  mice, 

There  is  a  plan  that's  working  nice. 

O'er  all  the  plans  of  men  and  devils 
There  is  a  plan  into  which  shrivels 

All  other  plans.     In  fact,  they  all  seem  one — 

The  shining  stars,  the  rolling  sun, 
The  highest  love  of  angels'  ken, 
The  maudling  love  of  mortal  men, 

The  bitter  hate,  the  foulest  sin, 

All  seem  a  grand  old  plan  within. 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

There  is  a  place  where  heaven  keeps 
A  record  of  each  flash  that  sweeps; 
A  record  of  each  thought  you  think; 
A  record  of  each  time  you  wink; 
A  record  of  all  things  that  are; 
Not  only  of  each  shining  star, 
But  diatoms,  and  every  cell, 
Each  have  their  record  kept  as  well. 
And  whether  as  an  inert  mass 
Whose  record  you  might  think  a  farce, 
Or  free,  with  power  to  love  or  sin, 
All  seem  to  work  one  plan  within, 

And  demonstrate  of  truth  one  phase, 
Whose  record  in  unending  lays 
Is  truth.     The  truth  is  unto  the  /  Am, 
The  name  for  all  creation's  plan; 

All  things  that  are,  all  that  is  done 
Beneath  each  shining  star  and  sun; 
All  thoughts  that  ever  seraph  breathed, 
All  nets  that  ever  demon  weaved, 

Are  but  component  parts  of  truth. 
All  thoughts  suggested  to  enthrall — 
Each  time  there  doth  a  sparrow  fall, 
Each  time  a  bird  its  mate  may  call, 

Each  wave  that  music  must  vibrate, 
Each  pulse  electric,  love  and  hate, 
There  is  a  record  kept  of  all, 
Where  none  are  great  and  none  are  small. 
For  great  and  small  must  I  explain 
Mostly  are  phantoms  of  the  brain — 
No  two  alike;  thus  none  can  take 
The  other's  place,  but  each  must  wait 
And  do  its  share,  and  thus  fulfill 
Its  part  of  truth  for  good  or  ill. 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

As  the  record  is  ever  kept 

By  eyelids  that  have  never  slept, 

The  grand  old  truth  keeps  rolling  on, 
Its  archives  filed  in  heaven's  zone. 

Perhaps  you  think  that  gathering  news 
Is  but  the  trade  that  you  did  choose ; 

But  could  you  grasp  the  eternal  plan, 

That  record  keeps  of  everything; 
Could  you  see  that  record  hall 
Where  account  is  kept  of  all; 

Of  each  moment  as  it  flies, 

Each  act  that  therein  may  arise; 

Of  things  so  small  you  would  despise 

Were  they  visible  to  eyes ; 
Of  things  so  vast  you  could  not  grasp 
Their  import  till  the  time  was  past ; 

Yet  there  each  one  is  classified, 

Indexed,  compared  and  ratified. 
How  it  affects  the  whole  each  part 
Described  is  by  a  heavenly  art. 

For  each  part  affects  the  whole 

In  some  way;  and  there  is  no  soul, 
No  mind,  no  beast,  no  force,  no  thing, 
But  what  on  all  must  influence  bring. 

Yes,  there  the  tangled  web  of  life, 
So  mixed  with  sin,  deceit  and  strife, 

Is  straightened  out.     Each  one  receives 

Justice.  There  no  make-believes 
On  the  wrong  page  appear; 
The  Source  of  Light  makes  all  things  clear. 

And  I  think,  in  fact  I  know, 

The  plan  of  all  above,  below, 

The  eternal  plan,  which  ever  runs 
Through  heaven,  hell  and  dying  suns, 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  3! 

Will  there  appear. 
L,ike  some  vast  piece  of  tapestry, 

Some  threads  of  gold 

Where  good  is  told, 
Some  threads  of  green 
Where  envy's  seen, 

Blotches  of  red 

Where  blood  is  shed, 
Some  deepest  black 
Reveal  a  fact — 

Of  every  shade,  of  every  hue, 

Reveal  the  plan  so  true; 
The  vast,  harmonious  plan, 
Ne'er  visible  to  man, 

Angels  or  demons;  the  dream 

Of  the  Eternal  God. 

Now  are  you  really  writing  down 

The  words  escaping  from  my  tongue? 

And  do  you  dream  of  volumes  bound, 

Ranged  in  straight  rows  or  circling  round? 

What  you  do  not  know,  if  written  down, 

No  hall  could  hold  in  any  town, 

And  space  to  build  would  ne'er  be  given 
Outside  the  spacious  plains  of  heaven. 

But  now  I  wish  some  way  to  find 
To  tell  you  of  the  spirit  mind, 

How  we  communicate  together 

Without  lips  to  move  the  ether. 
To  tell  you  how  our  books  are  written 
So  that  nothing  is  forgotten; 

Where  things  material  ne'er  exist, 

Not  even  an  ethereal  mist. 
But  I  told  you  at  the  first 
Your  language  now  is  partly  curst, 


32  DSATH   AND  TH£  REPORTER. 

And  not  developed,  as  'twill  be 

In  years  that  you  shall  never  see. 
You  know  that  words  are  only  signs 
To  the  fleshy  eyes  of  minds, 

Where  they  some  kind  of  impress  make 

As  like  as  not  a  vile  mistake 

From  what  was  meant,  at  any  rate. 
You  know  how  pictures  oft  obtain 
A  place  to  help  these  words  explain. 

And  you  have  seen  those  pictures  flashed, 

Their  speed  your  fleshy  sight  surpassed — 
Those  pictures  formed  by  the  light, 
A  bungling  effort  of  man's  might. 

And  you  have  seen  them  flashed  so  quick 

Your  perceptions  they  outwit; 
The  scenes  may  seem  to  run  or  dance, 
Fight  or  wriggle,  walk  or  prance; 

And  you  have  heard  how  sounds  are  caught 

And  reproduced  by  human  art. 
If  all  of  these  things  have  been  done 
By  the  crude  hand  of  dying  man, 

Just  think  what  may  be  done  in  heaven, 

Where  the  brightest  minds  are  living. 
When  there  a  book  you  wish  to  read, 
The  flashing  truth  will  show  each  deed 

As  it  was  done  on  earth  below, 

Or  anywhere  you  wish  to  go. 
Should  you  think  of  matter  gross, 
Wish  to  examine  very  close, 

There  you  do  not  need  a  glass, 

The  books  before  your  eyes  will  flash; 
In  size  desired  each  part  will  show, 
Till  every  molecule  you  know. 

So  you  can  see  them  far  or  near, 

In  varying  size  shall  things  appear, 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  33 

That's  done  by — but  how  can  I  tell? 

Your 'language  fails,  your  head  might  swell. 
Solids  you  can  see  through  and  through — 
Nothing  is  hidden  from  your  view. 

Dream  not  of  seeing  cut  or  word 

In  heaven  —  that  might  be  absurd. 

Most  books  are  living  books  up  there, 

In  that  land  so  bright  and  fair. 
Now,  if  'tis  toward  history  you  incline, 
And  wish  to  know  the  facts  of  time, 

It  matters  not,  take  any  date, 

And  ask  the  book  just  to  relate. 
The  book  will  talk  so  you  can  hear, 
The  sights  before  your  eyes  appear; 

Each  move  that's  made,  each  deed  that's  done, 

Whether  in  dark  or  open  sun  ; 
Each  noble  deed,  or  what  you  call 
Ignoble — you  can  see  them  all. 

No  difference  is  known  up  there 

'Tween  monarch's  hall  or  savage  lair; 
Not  only  will  the  sights  appear — 
The  accompanying  sounds  you'll  also  hear. 

And  it  will  be  as  if  in  fact 

You  were  a  witness  of  each  act; 
As  indeed  you  then  will  be, 
When  all  truth's  record  you  can  see. 

And  more  than  that:  for  what  they  thought, 

That  book  can  tell  as  well  as  not. 
There  is  no  flight  of  oratory  lost; 
No  price  on  genius  there,  neither  is  there  cost. 

There  you  can  see  the  living,  sculptured  rock, 

And  watch  the  artist  hew  it  from  the  block. 
There  you  can  see  deceitful  canvas  made, 
To  fool  your  senses  with  its  subtle  shade. 
3 


34  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

All  the  masterpieces  will  be  there, 

And  many  others  which  we  well  might  spare. 

So  you  may  think.     But,  no,  there  is  none  lost; 

Nothing  was  ever  done  but  there  can  boast 
Of  record. 

Oh,  ye  mortals!  if  you  but  knew, 

How  many  things  you  would  not  do ; 
How  many  things  were  never  done, 
Thought  you  to  face  them  one  by  one; 

For  which  error  of  thy  youth 

Would  you  search  the  book  of  truth? 

How  should  you  guard  each  spoken  word, 
Knowing  'tis  a  matter  of  record. 

But  know,  O  man !  there  is  one  light  in  heaven 

Can  pierce  through  any  creature  living; 

Cast  on  a  screen  what  you  have  thought, 
Reveal  the  dream  you  thought  was  naught 
To  any  one  but  you. 

O  man !     'Twill  show  the  cleansing  power  of  blood 

To  all  eternity. 

No  power  can  ever  now  erase 
The  writing  of  your  thoughtless  ways; 

No  chemical  can  e'er  expunge 

From  heaven's  books  the  living  ones; 
Neither  will  it  fade  away — 
The  light  but  forces  it  to  stay 
Up  there. 

And  know  you  not 

Nothing  can  ever  be  forgot 
In  spirit  land? 

Only  where  cell  displaces  cell 
Can  impressions  loosely  dwell. 

And  know  you  not — 

Or  is  it  far  beyond  your  thought — 


DEATH   AND   THE   REPORTER.  35 

Each  ultimate  vibration, 
Whatever  the  sensation — 

Heat,  electrical,  or  light, 

And  some  invisible  as  night — 

As  they  were  never  named  by  you, 
Never  exposed  unto  your  view — 

Yet  each  has  its  own  number,  where 

They  have  a  number  for  each  hair, 
And  has  a  part  of  truth  to  keep 
For  those  who  on  the  earth  now  sleep, 
Yet  live  with  God  to  all  eternity? 

If  such  thoughts  should  stagger  you, 
Think  of  the  years  so  short  and  few 
That  you  have  lived  to  learn. 

Think  of  the  years  that  are  to  come, 

You  still  may  be  a  learning  one, 

Through  vast  eternity. 
When  time  into  eternity  has  passed, 
Your  learning  time  will  ever  last ; 
Ever  concealing,  ever  revealing,  the  greatness  of  our  God. 

Creation's  vast  domain, 

Where'er  God  lives  to  reign — 
Immortals,  mortals,  living  things,  things  dead, 
Are  emanations  of  his  heart  and  head. 

The  aggregate  of  all  that  he  has  done, 

Vast  though  their  total  sum, 

Compares  not  with  the  Holy  One. 
And  now  just  think;  it  is  not  all  of  kings, 
Emperors  or  priests,  or  other  bloody  things, 

That  history  is  made.     The  life  of  each  and 
every  one, 

Of  all  who  toiled  beneath  the  sun; 
With  all  of  their  environments, 
Tendencies  inherited,  acquirements ; 


36  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

All  that  they  did  beneath  the  sky, 
The  scenes  will  glide,  the  books  tell  why — 
For  this  is  history. 

Suppose  you  read  in  ancient  times 
How  they  fared  in  regal  lines, 

And  wished  to  know  how  common  people 
Lived  through  such  hilarious  evil. 
You  then  could  take  a  common  man, 
Whose  life  through  the  whole  period  ran, 
And  see  him  live,  and  hear  him  talk, 
Be  with  him  in  his  daily  walk; 
See  all  his  friends  and  all  his  foes, 
'Most  feel  his  pleasures  and  his  woes ; 
See  how  his  fathers  lived  and  died, 
Hear  how  his  children  laughed  and  cried ; 
And  every  act  should  be  explained 
By  one  who  strictest  watch  maintained 

All  the  long  years. 
How  would  that  be  for  history? 
Not  much  room  left  for  mystery 

Up  there? 

There  will  be  records  kept  up  there 
Some  might  wish  were  kept  elsewhere, 

So  you  think  now. 
But  if  e'er  you  think  above, 
Your  heart  will  be  so  filled  with  love, 
Things  will  not  seem  as  now  they  do; 
Center  of  all,  no  longer  you, 

But  the  vast  we  round  the  I  Am. 

But  should  your  wish  go  further  back, 
Before  that  man  this  globe  did  walk; 
Suppose  you  take  a  mass  of  rock 
Burned  or  cemented  in  a  block, 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  37 

And  wish  to  see  it  as  of  yore 
It  rolled  as  pebbles  on  the  shore ; 

The  book  will  take  you  back  that  far, 

And  make  you  think  that  there  you  are ; 
There  you  can  wander  at  your  will, 
Of  sights  and  sounds  take  in  your  fill; 

See  what  then  lived,  see  every  weed ; 

Be  a  spectator  of  each  deed; 
Till  tired,  to  heaven  you  wish  to  roam, 
And  then  you  feel  yourself  at  home. 

Or  should  your  wish  go  further  back, 
To  see  the  fireworks  of  the  act ; 

There  with  the  angels  you  may  fly, 

And  whirl  the  atoms  in  the  sky. 

Be  with  them  when  the  worlds  were  framed, 
And  learn  in  heaven  how  they  were  named ; 

And  you  can  any  atom  take 

And  trace  it  from  the  ethereal  state, 

Through  every  form  and  compound, 
Gaseous,  liquid,  solid  ground ; 

Trace  it  until  a  frozen  mass, 

No  change  can  ever  come  to  pass  ; 

Those  books  will  show  it  unto  you, 
When  solid  rock  you  must  look  through ; 

Wherever  it  may  buried  be, 

There  it  your  eye  will  plainly  see. 

All  its  surroundings  they  will  show 
So  that  all  things  you  may  know. 
There's  no  excuse  for  ignorance 
Up  there. 

Just  think !     Eternity !     Eternity !     Eternity ! 
To  examine  all  those  things ! 
But  it  to  me  such  horror  brings. 


38  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

Oh,  our  worst  woe,  our  growth,  is  stopped; 
Our  upward  way  forever  blocked. 

Is  there  development  for  us? 

The  longing  how  we  ever  curse. 
He  who  his  Bible  makes  his  rule, 
May  be  in  all  things  else  a  fool; 

Yet  in  eons  he  shall  grow, 

Till  more  than  Satan  he  shall  know. 
Have  you  not  seen,  what  would  in  time  have  been   a 

butterfly, 

Stung  by  the  cruel  ichneumonidse, 
And  live  a  fearful  life — it  could  not  die? 

Such  is  our  fate;  no  growth  for  us; 

Ourselves  all  eaten  up,  our  hearts  now  nurse 
Hate !  cruel  hate !  where  ancient  love  should  reign. 
Oh!     How  we  nurse  this  synonym  of  pain, 
And  curse,  and  curse,  and  curse  our  God  again. 

'Tis  fearful  thus  to  live;  if  life  it  is, 

'Twere  better  far  to  die;  but  death  we  miss. 
Oh,  could  we  cease  to  exist !  but  no  venomed  sting 
Can  give  us  such  release,  relief  it  can  not  bring. 

Ever  we  nurse  this  horrid  thing  called  hate; 

It  rancors  in  our  breast,  ours  is  a  dreadful  fate. 
When  those  who  soar  on  high  are  poring  o'er  life's  book, 
We  in  the  pit  must  lie  and  never  upward  look; 

Damned,  chained  and  damned,  our  inwards  nursing 

hate, 
No  change  but  chains  for  us.     No  change  but  chains ! 

But  further  back  you  still  may  go, 
And  more  of  truth  you  yet  may  know. 

The  great  rebellion  you  may  trace, 

And  see  its  heroes  face  to  face. 
When  now  a  record  you  aspire 
To  keep  of  battle's  raging  fire; 


DEATH   AND   THE   REPORTl.R.  39 

When  now  you  try  the  light  impress 
To  register  the  dire  distress, 

And  agony  of  struggles  fierce 

When  men  the  human  bosom  pierce, 

Plunge  in  the  throbbing  breast  the  lance, 
Or  music  play  so  death  may  dance ; 

Then  say  not  this  is  something  new, 

And  credit  claim  for  what  you  do. 
You  are  but  trying  to  regain 
What  you  have  lost  by  sin  and  pain. 

For  it  was  done  so  long  ago 

Years  can  not  measure ;  far  too  slow 
Are  centuries  to  tell  the  tale; 
Figures  would  tire,  and  words  would  fail 
To  give  the  date. 

Language  evolved  upon  this  bail 

Can  never  measure  it  at  all, 

And  if  it  could,  you  could  not  grasp 
The  lengthening  shadow  of  the  past. 

Yet  up  above,  if  e'er  you  go, 

And  the  history  want  to  know 

Of  scenes  before  that  battle  scarred 

The  face  of  heaven,  and  the  record  marred 

Of  love  and  truth — 'tis  written  there — 

Your  privilege  is  everywhere. 

Then  further  back  and  further  stiil 
Till  time  is  lost,  and  the  Eternal  Will 
Is  all  in  all. 

Thought  you  ever  much  of  time — 

How  much  can  grasp  that  head  of  thine? 
As  forms  the  circuit  of  the  earth 
A  base  too  small  to  measure  with 

The  starry  heavens, 

So,  much  too  small  your  lifetime  is 


4O  DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER. 

To  measure  vast  eternity — 

Grand  cause  of  infidelity — 

But  what  is  time  to  God?     What  is  eternity? 
Had  he,  when  Satan  sin  conceived, 
That  instant  chained,  and  ne'er  relieved; 

Had  bound  him  in  the  darkest  night, 

Put  him  forever  out  of  sight, 
Or  put  him  where  we  all  could  see 
The  monument  of  sin  to  be ; 

What  would  the  Grand  Intelligence  of  heaven 

Have  thought  if  such  award  was  given? 
Would  justice  then  have  been  displayed 
As  now  it  is,  though  long  delayed? 

Who  then  of  love  had  known  the  power 

As  even  we  know  at  this  hour? 
Who  ever  would  have  known  the  curse 
Its  lack  entails  of  misery?     And  worse, 

Some  might  be  tempted  to  have  thought 

'Twas  punishment  severe  for  naught. 
But  no — God's  plan  is  as  the  plan  of  God, 

Eternal  as  eternity! 

Immense  as  all  immensity! 

Minute  even  to  minutia! 
He  works  out  all  details ! 
His  purpose  never  fails! 

So  that  all  may  read  and  know 

The  truth,  and  wise  and  wiser  grow. 
Shall  I  the  thought  unto  you  tell, 
The  hierarchy  discussed  in  hell? 

Not  openly  discussed;  no,  never! 

But  whispered  one  unto  the  other? 
Shall  I  tell?     What  is  the  use? 
Of  words  it  would  be  abuse. 

How  do  you  think?     Can  you  believe? 

Will  your  cranium  it  receive? 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  4! 

Or  holds  that  plastic  piece  of  mud 
What  strikes  it  with  sufficient  thud? 

"Tis  so.     Then  try  to  understand 

Since  first  in  time  I  gazed  on  land ; 
Since  first  I  gazed  on  starry  mist, 
Or  even  since  I  left  the  blest; 

Eons  though  it  to  you  appear, 

To  me  'tis  but  one  night  of  fear, 

Rayless,  gloomy,  without  cheer. 
And  to  the  time  I  lived  before 
It  is  as  nothing.     The  time  I  did  adore 

Is  as  a  thousand  years  unto  a  day, 

Or  some  such  figure,  figuring  your  way. 
So,  then,  our  hierarchy  are  right, 
Though  figured  out  in  darkest  night, 
Without  a  single  ray  of  light. 

The  time  that  all  outbreaking  sin 

Exists  is  not  worth  reckoning; 
Scarce  even  as  an  instant  counts 
In  absolute  eternity. 

God  will  not  suffer  sin  to  run 

One  second  that's  a  useless  one. 
Each  moment  of  these  sinful  ages, 
Although  required  to  fill  the  pages 

Of  sin's  narrative  of  wrong, 

Is  still  begrudged  from  heaven's  throne. 
Each  pang  that  rends  the  human  breast, 
Each  groan,  each  tremor  of  unrest, 

And  every  throb  of  deep  despair 

Ascending  from  a  demon's  lair, 
Required  is  every  one  to  keep 
Eternal  ages  pure  and  sweet. 

None  is  superfluous ;  there  is  no  waste ; 

All  in  the  record  books  are  placed, 


42  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

Where  they  will  do  good  for  aye, 
And  keep  the  heavens  bright  as  day. 

And  then,  those  essays  and  reviews; 

One  theme  I  think  that  they  will  choose, 
When  writing  on  this  earth,  will  be 
To  show  how  clearly  they  can  see 

The  ratio  that  must  exist 

Between  the  love  we  long  have  missed 
And  happiness;  to  show  that  as  this  love  has  waned, 
Ignorance,  vice  and  misery  reigned; 

To  show  that  as  this  love  has  spread, 

The  world  seemed  waking  from  the  dead. 
Knowledge  and  pleasure  have  entwined, 
And  embrace  the  human  mind. 

Even  the  curse  you  did  receive 

In  Eden,  science  hastens  to  relieve. 
If  'tis  of  science  you  wish  to  know, 
To  headquarters  you  may  go. 

At  the  foundation  you  may  start 

And  see  the  basis  of  each  art. 
The  trouble  with  you  men  has  been, 
That  science  as  'tis  always  seen, 

Is  seen  obliquely;  or,  if  not, 

You  do  not  grasp  it  as  you  ought. 
Then  it  will  be  quite  different, 
When  every  experiment 

Is  but  a  demonstration 

Of  the  laws  of  all  creation. 
When  not  oblique,  but  straight  you  look, 
As  it  is  written  in  the  book, 

Not  only  trace  all  force  and  matter 

Backward  to  the  heavenly  Father, 
But  from  his  creative  hand 
Trace  every  force  as  his  command. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  43 

Perhaps  trace  every  molecule 

As  the  equipment  of  the  school, 
Where  he  trained  for  higher  things 
Pupae,  which  consternation  brings 
On  us. 

'Tis  a  great  thing  for  the  sons  of  God, 

Now  traveling  this  dusty  road, 
That  hall  of  records  has  been  kept 
By  watchful  ones,  who  never  slept ; 

Nothing  so  small,  nothing  so  great, 

But  what  those  records  must  relate. 
God  on  the  present,  future,  past, 
His  searching  eye  can  ever  cast ; 

But  every  soul  he  has  create, 

Whether  it  be  small  or  great, 
Is  but  a  learner  in  his  school; 
There's  no  exception  to  this  rule, 

And  there  are  none  can  grasp  the  whole ; 

He  never  made  so  vast  a  soul. 
Therefore  exists  this  record  hall 
Where  account  is  kept  of  all. 

And  ever  though  we  grow  and  grow, 

And  ever  more  of  God  we  know, 
Still,  vast  creation  rolls  along, 
Truth  has  a  never-ending  song. 

And  ever  something  to  relate, 

God,  the  Father,  will  create. 

But  who  now  am  I  talking  to? 

A  mortal  demigod  like  you ! 

Your  brain.     What  if  the  little  speck 
Should  burst  that  swelling  on  your  neck? 

But  who  can  grasp  the  mind  of  God? 

What  mind  can  stagger  with  the  load? 


44  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

When  Satan  started  to  fulfill 

Each  shade  and  aspect  caused  by  ill ; 
To  demonstrate  in  actual  life 
The  hideous  wrongs  and  awful  strife 

Which  violated  law  evolved! 

Dreamt  he  that  He  who  all  controlled 
Allowed  him  thus  and  thus  to  do? 
That  he,  all  demons,  yes,  and  you, 

Should  demonstrate  and  cause  those  write 

-Who  dwell  in  holy,  beaming  light, 

Love's  awful  wrong? 

Dreamt  he,  he  but  the  background  wrought, 
To  show  the  love  'gainst  which  he  fought, 

To  prove  to  all  eternity 

God's  love  has  such  intensity? 

His  love  fills  all  immensity — 

His  very  name  is  love. 
Or,  as  has  been  so  lately  proved, 

His  love  rules  o'er  his  throne, 
So  that  for  sinners  such  as  you 

His  blood  can  now  atone. 
No,  I  do  not  think  he  did, 
From  him  the  future  close  is  hid. 

Had  his  foresight  been  as  good 

As  his  hindsight,  he  had  stood; 
And  never  would  the  records  tell 
How  he  envied,  how  he  fell. 

There  is  but  One  the  future  knows; 

He  is  the  source  from  which  truth  flows; 
Truth  he  on  earth  does  demonstrate 
As  you  on  blackboard  or  on  slate. 

No  cause  so  subtle  but  he  knows 

Just  how  far  its  influence  goes; 
No  force  so  feeble  or  remote, 
But  credit  gets  for  what  it  wrought. 


DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER.  45 

None  are  erratic,  none  are  strange, 

To  him  who  every  force  maintains. 
Even  will  power  he  understands — 
Some  think  it  follows  his  commands — 

As  all  have  influence  on  all, 

But  one  can  grasp  the  sum  total. 
When  all  this  influence  is  summed  up, 
The  product  predicts  the  result — 
One  way  of  being  omniscient. 

When  we  look  at  God  aright, 

We're  dazzled  in  a  blaze  of  light; 
Can  we  tell  where  omniscience 
Is  blended  with  omnipotence? 

Oh,  what  sensations  in  me  rise! 

How  much  I  now  myself  surprise! 
Once  these  thoughts  caused  adoration ; 
Despairing  hate  is  my  sensation 
Now. 

But  whether  in  heaven  or  in  hell, 
Each  one  his  phase  of  truth  must  tell; 

And  no  one  knows  till  'tis  worked  out, 

The  problem  his  life  is  about. 
Yet  is  the  record  filed  away 
Where  light  more  brilliant  is  than  day; 

And  some  time  you  the  truth  may  know, 

Unless  you  dwell  with  us  in  woe. 

Yes,  you  may  read  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
Study,  and  ponder  more  and  more; 

And  find  how  none  e'er  duplicate; 

How  all  are  ruled  as  if  by  fate, 

Each  its  own  truth  to  demonstrate. 

The  truth  of  love,  the  truth  of  hate, 

The  truth  of  forces  small  and  great; 

The  truth  of  atoms,  the  truth  of  all, 
Unseen  as  air  or  massed  in  ball. 


46  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

But  why  should  I  the  truth  forestall, 
And  tell  to  you,  who  scarce  can  crawl 
Around  your  rotund  prison  cell, 
Things  which  we  found  out  since  we  fell? 
But  if  I  tell  you,  mortal  man, 
And  in  eternity  you  scan 
The  record  of  some  guilt  and  crime, 
And  think  to  visit  our  confine, 

And  find  some  way  by  which  you  can, 
Give  me  your  promise,  as  a  man, 
You  will  find  me  in  the  pit, 
Where  in  darkness  bound  I  sit; 
And  tell  to  me  as  I  tell  you 
Of  things  shut  out  from  present  view. 

Reporter: 

Well,  I  never  thought 
When  I  first  this  pencil  bought, 
I  had  struck  so  long  a  job, 
But  I  will  try.     So  help  me,  God. 

Death: 

But  perhaps  you  would  rather  wait 

Till  you  are  in  another  state — 

Say  up  in  heaven,  with  all  of  time, 
To  sift  the  truths  of  sin  and  crime; 

Or  would  you  rather  there  sing  psalms 

And  exercise  by  waving  palms? 

Reporter: 

While  I  would  be  the  last  to  scoff, 

You  know  that  time's  a  long  way  oft". 
I  will  take  your  story  now, 
If  it  be  with  throbbing  brow. 

And  when  psalms  I  have  to  sing, 

That  will  be  another  thing. 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  47 

The  rough  and  tumble  suits  me  well, 
I'll  figure  to  keep  out  of  hell, 
Or  call  it  all  a  dream. 

Death: 

Well,  then,  when  we  had  done  the  worst  we  knew, 
And  dreamt  that  we  had  spoiled  a  few, 

Still  vast  creation  rolled  along; 

Our  hurt  was  scarcely  worth  a  song. 
Still  we  are  working  in  the  plan, 
Although  we  do  the  worst  we  can. 

We  know  the  truth  we  demonstrate, 

Though  hard  we  try  to  call  it  Fate. 
We  know  the  part  we  do  but  fills 
The  book  of  record  of  the  ills 

That  broken  love  entails  on  all, 

Since  we  ceased  loving  and  did  fall, 
Out  of  the  sunshine  and  the  light, 
To  outer  darkness,  darkest  night. 

These  laws  to  fight  ne'er  will  we  quit 

Till  we  are  bound  within  the  pit 

That's  bottomless,  where  God  sees  fit ; 
There  still  keep  raving,  cursing  heaven 
And  the  life  our  God  has  given. 

Oh,  that  hidden  from  his  face 

There  was  a  spot  in  outer  space. 
But  no!     When  hurled  from  his  throne, 
We  into  space  keep  falling  on ; 

Though  our  momentum  should  increase 

Like  falling  rocks,  and  never  cease, 
We  know  that  of  each  curse  we  breathe, 
That  every  time  with  hate  we  seethe, 

He  will  the  record  file  away 

Where  saints  and  angels  ever  stay. 
Though  further,  further  we  are  swept, 
And  bound  and  fettered  ever  kept, 


48  DEATH   AND   THE   REPORTER. 

Still,  of  our  anguish  and  our  woes, 
Still,  of  death's  ever-dying  throes, 
He  will  the  record  keep  up  there 
Where  everything  is  bright  and  fair, 
To  demonstrate  of  truth  one  phase, 
Whose  record  in  unending  lays 
Is  truth. 

But  now  one  phase  of  truth  I  tell, 
Whose  record  might  be  kept  in  hell. 
If  in  such  a  place  you  find 
A  place  for  storage  of  the  mind. 
I  will  tell  how  I  got  the  scythe 
For  taking  life  from  those  who  writhe. 

You  see,  some  globes  commenced  to  cool 
When  I  was  acting  like  a  fool ; 
And  forms  of  matter  did  compound, 
Which  when  real  hot  could  not  be  found. 
And  as  more  heat  did  radiate, 
Some  gases  took  the  liquid  state; 
And  as  they  still  kept  whirling  round, 
Some  liquids  turned  into  the  ground ; 
That  is,  the  surface  of  the  ball 
Got  so  it  would  resist  a  fall, 
And  nothing  to  the  center  went 
Unless  with  fearful  force  'twas  sent; 
Although  the  tendency  that  way 
Still  keeps  a-pulling  all  the  day. 
And  as  the  mass  got  harder  still, 
Volcanoes  played  on  every  hill ; 

As  it  would  wrinkle  and  contract, 
Sometimes  the  globe  would  badly  crack, 
And  the  liquid  stuff  inside 
Poured  o'er  countries  far  and  wide; 
And  the  liquid  stuff  called  water, 
Loud  did  hiss  and  roar  and  spatter, 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  49 

And  ever  upward  did  arise — 
The  hazy  vapor  filled  the  skies. 

Or  rather,  from  the  skies  to  settle, 

Fought  this  most  persistent  metal; 
And  with  hiss  and  roar  and  spatter, 
Ripped  and  tore  the  liquid  matter. 

To  level  hard  it  tried  the  hills, 

Their  contour  softened  by  its  rills. 
This  would  be  a  rocky  ball 
Were  it  not  for  waterfall. 

As  the  balls  still  kept  contracting, 

Gravity  and  rain  kept  acting 
On  the  masses  left  on  high, 
Towering  up  into  the  sky; 

And  some  masses  forced  up  higher, 

By  restraint  resisting  fire. 
Still  old  gravity  kept  pulling, 
And  the  rain  the  rocks  kept  cooling — 
On  them  dashed  and  kept  a- fooling; 

Down  they  come  with  crash  and  thud — 

A  grinding  mass  of  sand  and  mud, 
And  the  water  courses  choke 
With  debris  of  pounded  rock, 

And  the  lower  levels  fill 

With  sand  and  mud  from  every  hill. 
In  this  mud  and  in  this  water 
Something  happened  unto  matter — 

Something  that  our  wisdom  vexed, 

And  the  wisest  much  perplexed. 
For  this  something  seemed  possessed 
With  a  something  all  confessed 

Was  altogether  new  with  matter, 

Either  in  the  land  or  water. 
Then  we  searched  these  balls  of  rock, 
We  to  their  very  center  broke; 
4 


50  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

There  was  no  place  we  did  not  search — 

Deepest  den  and  highest  perch; 
Searched  each  solid,  liquid,  gas, 
Each  inert  and  rolling  mass; 

We  searched  the  very  highest  ether, 

Then  compared  our  notes  together, 
To  find  if  it  was  really  true; 
It  bothered  so  our  hellish  crew, 

Why  life  in  matter  then  began. 

What  was  the  reason?    What  the  plan? 
But  nearly  on  the  surface  all 
The  life  is  gathered  of  a  ball; 

There  is  none  in  the  solid  rock, 

In  ether,  or  electric  shock. 
Shall  I  tell  to  you  as  well, 
Secret  surmisings  out  of  hell? 

You  see,  when  we  were  outward  driven, 
We  were  a  third  of  all  in  heaven. 

What  He  would  do  our  place  to  fill, 

Watched  we  close,  and  watch  we  still. 
And  when  He  abroad  did  scatter 
All  this  shining  stuff  called  matter, 

We  surmised  some  way  or  other, 

We  should  find  some  kind  of  brother. 
So  when  in  the  mud  and  water 
We  did  find  this  living  matter, 

We  said  at  once,  a  committee 

Of  biologists  should  be 

Appointed,  to  examine  and  report. 
I  was  a  fellow  of  that  sort; 

I  took  the  job,  I  did  not  wince — 

I  have  been  at  it  ever  since. 

But  how  to  tell  of  spirits'  skill, 
How  your  muddy  head  to  fill 


DEATH    AND    THE    REPORTER.  51 

With  ideas  of  our  power, 
Although  you  feel  it  every  hour, 

Perplexes  me  as  much  or  more 

As  the  life  on  that  muddy  shore. 
But  how  we  do  on  matter  play, 
It  is  done  in  such  a  way, 

It  is  hard  for  us  to  tell; 

You  can  do  it  just  as  well; 
For  you  could  not  move  your  lips 
Were  you  not  in  such  a  fix. 

Still  there  is  much  of  mystery 

Even  in  nature's  history. 
Oft  where  angels'  work  we  trace 
We  have  brought  it  to  disgrace. 
Their  plan  of  morals  how  deface. 

But  where  moves  the  great  I  Am, 

We  are  working  in  the  plan, 

Even  when  we  do  the  worst  we  can. 
So  when  life  we  tried  to  study, 
If  it  was  a  little  muddy, 

Suspicion  blossomed  to  dismay 

When  we  realized  the  way 
It  could  cause  other  matter  dead 
To  be  a  living  thing  instead? 

We  wondered  much  where  this  would  grow, 

As  soon  as  we  found  that  it  was  so. 
A  thing  that  other  things  could  make, 
And  give  them  life  from  death  awake! 

This  is  an  old,  old  fact  with  you, 

But  'twas  astonishing  when  new. 
When  first  upon  our  minds  it  dawned, 
It  made  us  think  the  master  hand 

Who  made  it,  made  it  for  our  doom — 

A  guilty  conscience  is  a  living  tomb. 


52  DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER. 

We  down  the  ages  glanced  afar, 
And  saw  the  future  of  some  star. 

A  thing  that  had  such  Godlike  power, 

It  others  made  to  live !    Oh,  'twas  an  evil  hour 
For  us !  for  well  we  knew  how  all  improve 
Save  He  whose  very  name  is  love. 

Improvement,  evolution,  growth, 

Are  old  as  spirit  life,  and  life,  and  common  to 
them  both. 

Speaking  of  evolution:     Knowing  all  the  past, 

Some  of  us,  when  we  meet,  like  to  forecast 

How  this  and  that  will  grow,  change,  or  evolve, 
And  find  some  knotty  problems  we  must  solve. 

So  when  in  air  we  saw  you  mortals  fly, 

And  took  our  usual  toll — for  all  must  die — 

One  of  our  comrades  said  he'd  bet  his  whetstone  that 
The  undertakers  soon  the  air  would  plat. 

Another  said  that  doubtless  in  the  air 

Processions  soon  would  fly — but  where? 

"Yes,"  said  the  first,  "surely,  o'er  the  deep 
And  dark  blue  ocean  will  the  cortege  creep, 

Slowly  and  silent — then  when  the  sea  the  proper  depth 
attains, 

From  the  foremost  carriage  drop  the  loved  remains." 
"Ah,"  said  another,  "that  will  never  do. 
I'll  prove  your  guesses  can  ne'er  come  true. 

There  is  no  evolution  in  your  plan. 

The  sea  would  take  the  first  and  last  of  man." 

"But,"  said  the  first,  "the  undertakers  are  but  men, 
And  you  will  have  to  settle  up  with  them. 

When  in  a  circle,  slowly  flying  round, 

All  the  attraction  is  at  the  center  found. 

All  eyes  are  strained  to  see  the  casket  flash, 
And  view  with  breathless  interest  the  splash. 


DEATH   AND   THE  REPORTER.  53 

Now  of  that  splash  the  evolution  watch, 
And  find  the  end  from  the  beginning  hatch. 

At  first  it  was  an  ordinary  splash; 

Evolving  heights  kept  adding  to  the  crash, 
Until  in  course  of  time,  to  save  going  up  so  high, 
A  funeral  director  was  so  very  sly, 

He  put  a  little  high  explosive  where 

'Twould  send  the  splash  rebounding  through  the  air. 
That  was  the  start — a  little  bit  at  first — 
But  evolution  made  the  casket  burst; 

And  worse,  the  increased  charges  made  the  ocean 
roar, 

And  dash  with  surging  tumult  on  the  shore. 
Yet  worse,  'twas  very  hard  upon  the  fish, 
Men  scarce  could  get  a  decent  dish; 

But  when  there  scarce  was  left  a  whale, 

Government  interfered — that  ends  this  tale 

Of  evolution  on  the  smallest  scale — 
Say  of  two  thousand  years." 

"Well,"  said  another,  "if  you  will  attend, 
I'll  show  you  evolution  from  the  other  end. 

Look  at  this  sacred  city,  where  the  son  of  heaven, 
When  all  the  gates  were  shut,  is  the  only  living 
Male.     Then  trace  by  evolution,  if  you  can, 
How  he  the  high  position  keeps  from  every  other  man. 
At  first  it  was  a  neighbor's  daughter 
Helped  for  an  hour,  or  such  a  matter  ; 
Then  a  poor  orphan,  glad  to  find  a  home, 
Worked  for  a  trifle  more  than  bread  and  bone; 
Then  evolution  worked — wages  were  blows; 
At  work  the  madam  turned  up  her  nose; 
Still  evolution  worked,  with  help  so  cheap; 
Palaces  were  reared,  and  mansions  wide  and  deep. 
More  help  was  needed,  and  some  kind  of  men, 
If  that's  the  proper  name  for  such  as  them; 


54  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

And  so,  in  course  of  time,  we  see  the  son  of  heaven, 
When  all  the  gates  are  shut,  the  only  living 

Male  in  all  the  city.     Not  only  so,  but  even  at  this 
time 

You  can  see  all  the  grades,  shaded  so  fine, 
Not  one  is  missing,  all  open  to  your  sight, 
From  where  that  lonely  lord,  equipped  with  might  and 
right, 

Compels  his  servant,  slaves,  or  worse, 

To  where  some  girl  simply  helps  as  nurse. 
On  earth  we  now  can  get  a  Godlike  view 
And  see  things  as  He  is  supposed  to  do. 

The  present,  past  and  future  at  one  glance  we  see 

All  demonstrated,  plain  as  it  can  be, 
Of  the  help  question — evolution." 

But  there  were  no  jokes  in  us, 
When  first  we  saw  the  living  muss. 

Strained  was  every  mind  to  catch 

What  eternity  would  hatch; 
And  we  were  sure  we  saw  the  hand 
Of  our  late  partners  in  command. 

'Twas  then  I  learned  to  do  my  part, 

With  this  old-fashioned  scythe  and  dart. 
Still  we  could  not  exterminate — 
It  was  of  God,  we  call  it  fate. 

O'er  all  the  plans  of  men  and  mice 

There  is  a  plan  that's  working  nice, 
And  this  life  was  in  the  plan ; 
We  thought  it  was  when  it  began. 

And  still,  as  they  did  propagate, 

We  pursued  with  bitter  hate; 
With  cruelty  and  every  ill, 
With  science  and  malignant  skill; 

Fierce  we  wielded  scythe  and  dart, 

Drove  them  home  to  every  heart. 


DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER.  55 

We  have  played  no  sluggard's  part, 
Nor  have  we  blunted  this  old  dart. 

Still  this  life  has  onward  spread, 

Made  the  living  from  the  dead. 

From  shore  to  shore  in  oceans  deep, 
The  living  things  both  swim  and  creep; 

On  grassy  plains  and  mountains  steep 

The  living  things  both  wake  and  sleep. 

Though  many  a  time  a  race  was  swept 
From  face  of  earth,  still  life  has  kept; 

And  keep  its  own,  life  ever  shall 

On  the  outside  of  this  fiery  ball, 
As  long  as  there  is  heat  inside, 
Unless  something  should  betide, 

That  other  globes  not  far  away 

Have  not  experienced  in  their  day. 

Though  many  a  time,  with  fearful  throes, 
Old  Mother  Earth  to  help  us  chose; 

Though  animals  we  taught  the  art, 

And  trained  them  well  to  do  our  part; 
There  still  are  living  things  to-day, 
And  life  still  holds  its  glorious  sway. 

Ah!     If  you  only  life  could  see, 

Where  fear  of  death  can  never  be; 
Could  you  trace  it  from  a  cell, 
Up  to  a  house  where  God  could  dwell — 

A  home  where  very  spirits  live, 

And  our  old  laws  pure  motive  give; 
Or  if  you  even  life  could  trace 
On  this  old  earth's  wrinkled  face — 

But  your  life  is  far  too  short. 

Could  you  but  hear  all  my  report, 

Of  all  that  lived,  you  I  would  tell — 
Their  name,  their  nature,  how  they  fell. 


56  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

What's  in  a  name?  but  I  might  show 
Their  nature  by  their  name,  I  know ; 
Then  I  would  only  prove  to  you 
What  I  suppose  you  know  is  true — 
How  we  are  working  in  the  plan, 
When  we  do  the  worst  we  can; 
How  every  animal  we  kill, 
A  better  tries  his  place  to  fill; 
How  every  race  we  swept  away, 
Made  room  for  higher  grade  than  they. 
If  your  head  that  way  inclines, 
I  could  take  you  to  the  mines ; 
I  could  show  you  underground 
Fossils  that  will  ne'er  be  found; 
I  could  show  you  missing  links, 
Conclusive  proof  to  him  who  thinks; 
They  would  prove  how  we  are  fooled; 
How  all  our  acts  are  overruled 
By  the  Almighty  God  above 
To  further  on  the  plan  of  love. 

Still,  if  you  are  inclined  that  way — 
But  you  will  find  it  no  child's  play — 

I  would  like  with  you  to  trace 

The  progression  of  the  race 

Of  animals  upon  the  face 
Of  this  old  earth;  or  would  you  take 
Some  other  star,  and  trace  its  fate, 

As  we  call  this  development? 

But  now  you  gave  me  such  a  hint, 
Your  sleepy  face  shows  many  a  scar 
Engraved  by  what  is  your  own  star. 

But  if  you  have  the  chance  embraced, 

You  have  got  no  time  to  waste; 
And  it  would  be  a  waste  of  time, 
Both  of  yours,  also  of  mine. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  57 

For  on  this  star  the  fate  of  all, 

Of  the  large  and  of  the  small, 
Has  been  sealed.     When  He  has  said  'Enough,' 
Back  to  the  misty,  shining  stuff; 

Back  to  the  star-mist  He  shall  roll 

The  heavens  like  a  burning  scroll. 
All  will  be  made  o'er  again, 
When  there  is  no  fear  of  sin. 

For  the  tragedy  on  earth, 

When  it  gave  its  God  a  birth, 
When  he  suffered  to  redeem, 
Is  greater  than  to  you  it  seem. 

It  is  greater,  vaster  far 

Than  all  the  forms  of  matter  are, 

Valued  not  by  every  star. 
These  shall  all  be  swept  away 
On  the  final  judgment  day. 

Oh !  and  where  shall  I  be  then, 

And  the  ruined  among  men? 

Feel  I  worse  now  than  I  shall  then, 

Bound  and  fettered  in  the  den  ? 
Think  you  a  heart  once  made  to  love, 
Made  to  adore  the  God  above, 

Can  be  satisfied  with  hate, 

Satisfied  with  cursing  fate? 
Relief  by  doing  a  sinful  thing 
Only  aggravates  the  sting. 

I  would  rather  be  in  hell, 

Bound  and  fettered  in  the  well; 
Falling  ever  down  the  pit, 
And  the  bottom  never  hit, 

Were  it  not  for  eternity! 

Eternity!  eternity! 
Oh,  the  sting  that  never  stops ! 
Oh,  the  curse  that  never  drops! 


58  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

If  we  could  only  end  with  time, 

Then  change  would  this  despair  of  mine. 

But  time  can  not  exhaust  my  hate; 

No  starry  mist  can  fix  a  date. 

But  I  would  curse  Him  fiercer  still, 
And  spurn  an  opiate  ever  will. 

Curse  Him  for  the  love  He  bears, 

Curse  Him  for  the  love  He  shares 
With  the  loving  round  the  throne, 
As  eternity  rolls  on. 

My  heart  was  made  for  endless  love; 

You  have  the  breath  of  Him  above. 
There  is  no  end  to  you  or  me, 
No  stopping  place  can  ever  be. 
On!     On!  eternity,  roll  on! 
,     Roll  on !  roll — yes,  as  you  and  I 

Roll  with  the  earth  around  the  sky, 
So  with  eternity  we  roll, 
And  never  dies  a  living  soul. 

Never  dies  the  breath  of  God, 

Can  not  die  beneath  the  rod; 
Can  not  die;  'tis  the  I  Am 
Who  says  "Thou  art"  to  every  man. 

The  end  of  all  things  may  be  so; 

At  least  the  end  of  all  below. 

God  gravitation  may  withdraw, 
And  matter  riot  without  law; 

Gaseous  stuff,  when  oppressed  by  heat, 

Returns  as  first  we  knew  it. 

What  use  will  have  your  changed  body 
For  food  or  garments  fine  or  shoddy? 

What  use  for  land  or  houses  fair, 

When,  like  your  God,  you  pass  through  air? 
When,  like  your  God,  you  never  sleep, 
Whether  you  live  to  laugh  or  weep; 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER-  59 

When,  like  your  God,  your  subtle  I 
Is  all  unveiled  and  can  not  die; 

When  all  unveiled  you  face  the  storm 

Eternal  wrath,  or  feel  life's  morn. 
Then  all  this  stuff  your  eyes  now  see, 
Or  with  your  hand  that  felt  can  be; 

This  stuff  I  never  yet  did  feel, 

Though  many  a  heart  I've  caused  congeal ; 
This  matter  will  have  played  its  part, 
A  process  in  high  heaven's  art 

Of  making  spirits,  or  immortal  souls, 

Ever  to  live  as  ever  rolls. 
If  all  things  tangible  be  swept  away, 
The  time  they  last  is  not  as  one  day 

Unto  eternity,  and  I  think  they  will, 

When  they  the  purpose  of  our  God  fulfill. 

But  oh!  eternity  rolls  on,  rolls  on. 
It  will  not  stop,  nor  listen  to  our  moan  ; 
It  will  not  stop,  however  deep  we  groan. 

A  fearful  thing  it  is  to  live 

With  the  breath  of  life  he  gave! 
Man!  it  is  a  fearful  thing, 
This  breath  of  life,  with  conscience  sting. 

A  solemn  thing  it  is  to  be 

A  spirit  for  eternity. 
No  attraction  there  to  bind ; 
Nothing  but  Love  our  hearts  can  find; 
Or  its  inverse,  the  blasted  kind, 
Hate. 

What  know  you  of  eternity,  O  man? 

Not  anything;  it  is  not  in  the  plan 
That  you  should  know.     The  lull  of  sleep 
Which  comes  where  soul  and  body  keep; 

Which  ever  comes  where  the  combine 

Of  soul  and  body  close  entwine — - 


6O  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Which  never  comes  to  spirit  lost — 
Can  not  be  had  at  any  cost. 

'Tis  only  in  the  embryo  state 

You  checker  thus  eternity. 
When  once  your  soul  from  flesh  is  free, 
You  are  as  ever  you  shall  be. 

If  then  remorse  begins  to  gnaw, 

'Tis  forever;  for  the  law 
Of  spirits  says  you  can  not  take 
Any  kind  of  opiate. 

Eternity  is  near,  is  far, 

Is  hell!  if  one's  with  God  at  war; 
It  never,  never  can  let  up; 
We  drain  forever  at  the  cup. 

Is  this  the  worm  that  never  dies? 

The  fire  unquenched,  whoever  tries, 
No  sleep  finds  in  eternity. 

Yes;  I  do  remember  well, 

And  the  date  to  you  could  tell 

When  'twas  whispered  in  my  ear — 
Made  me  tremble  as  with  fear — 

That  the  Presence  would  appear, 

That  Almighty  God  was  near; 

Then  upon  the  earth  he  stood, 
And  pronounced  it  very  good. 

Good,  despite  all  we  had  done; 

Good  had  so  far  the  victory  won. 
Ah,  you  mortals  little  know — 
Piggish  brutes,  your  nerves  are  so, 

You  can  never  realize 

Feelings  that  in  me  did  rise 

When  we  heard  that  he  had  come 
Within  the  circuit  of  the  sun. 

No;  your  make-up,  it  is  such, 

Crowed  your  feelings  overmuch. 


DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER.  6l 

Down  you  go  and  do  not  feel; 

Terror  does  your  powers  congeal  ; 
But  it  is  not  so  with  spirit; 
However  hurt,  they  still  must  bear  it; 

Howsoever  bad  they  feel, 

Never  can  their  essence  reel. 
For  we  are  not  a  compound, 
No  nerves  to  shock  or  brain  confound. 

We  are  like  the  light  of  day; 

Used  to  be,  perhaps  you  say; 
You  are  right.  How  look  I  now  ? 
There's  perspiration  on  your  brow. 

I  know  I  am  not  much  for  looks, 

Even  in  the  land  of  spooks. 

Now  I  suppose  you  want  to  know 

What  the  Almighty  did  below. 

Did  he  show  his  creative  power? 
How?     I  would  tell,  but  at  that  hour 

I  was  not  there;  and  what  to  me  is  told, 

In  court  of  justice  would  not  hold. 
'Tis  hearsay;  very  much  I  doubt 
If  those  who  told  me  were  about. 

In  fact,  when  God  was  on  the  earth, 

I  did  not  travel  for  my  health; 

I  did  not  wish  to  meet  him  there — 
Business  affairs  took  me  elsewhere. 

I  had  some  matters  to  attend, 

Did  not  get  back  before  the  end. 

When  I  got  back,  'twas  then  I  found 
I  had  to  study  a  compound: — 
A  mass  of  life  and  matter  that  had  found 
A  spirit ;  or  else  a  spirit  that  was  bound 

By  life  and  matter  in  just  such  a  way, 

The  one  without  the  other  would  not  stay. 


62  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Yet,  I  suppose  that  you  would  like  to  know, 
Just  how  I  think  it  was  created  so ; 

I  mean  just  how  the  work  was  done. 

But  all  our  crowd  the  place  did  shun. 
You  see,  God  has  with  him  a  crowd, 
If  talk  we  so,  when  we  talk  loud. 

There  always  is  with  him  a  host 

Of  those  who  seem  to  love  him  most, 
If  of  perfect  love  it  be 
Right  to  speak  in  a  degree. 

These,  with  the  angels  that  were  here, 

Guiding  and  managing  the  sphere, 
These  all  together  did  consult — 
Something  like  you  was  the  result. 

But  whether  of  the  ground  they  took, 

As  it  is  written  in  the  Book — 
And  as  none  of  us  was  there, 
The  Book  must  all  the  witness  bear — 

Out  of  the  dust  a  thing  did  mold 

From  pattern  angels  had  evolved. 

And,  do  you  know,  before  that  time 
I  thought  that  they  were  doing  fine, 

If  to  a  pattern  of  themselves, 

Or  some  such  model  on  their  shelves, 
They  were  slowly  bringing  round 
The  beings  living  on  the  ground. 

But  though  I  would  not  like  to  say, 

Even  in  an  unofficial  way, 

That  the  old  Book  has  commenced 
With  biology  condensed, 

You  are  formed  of  the  ground — 

Requiring  ages  to  come  round; 
Or  took  it  but  a  single  day — 
I  rather  think  the  other  way. 


DEATH  AND  THE  REPORTER.  63 

God  loves  a  systematic  plan — 
Why  not,  when  he  creates  a  man? 
And  what  is  time  to  the  /  Am? 

You  can  not  time  compare  at  all 

With  eternity — it  is  too  small; 
Might  try,  but  it  your  head  would  muddle, 
Comparing  earth  with  a  soapy  bubble. 

It  will  not  do.     Eternity  is  vast; 

Has  all  the  future,  and  has  all  the  past. 
With  God  all  time  is  but  one  day; 
With  you  it  does  not  look  that  way. 

But  yet,  in  some  eternity  it  will 

Hardly  a  niche  of  that  size  fill. 
Even  *as  the  earth  you  travel  round 
Seems  quite  a  rolling  stretch  of  ground, 

Had  you  the  sections  all  to  fence, 

Some  of  the  plains  would  seem  immense. 
But  when  upon  the  moon  you  stand, 
And  watch  the  oceans  and  the  land, 

It  now  would  seem  as  but  a  ball, 

With  hardly  any  plains  at  all. 
But  could  you  stand  upon  the  sun, 
This  ball  would  seem  a  tiny  one, 

And  look  to  you  so  very  small, 

You'd  blush  to  call  it  home  at  all. 
But  could  you  stand  upon  a  star 
Which  in  the  heavens  shines  afar, 

You  could  not  even  see  a  speck, 

Much  less  the  homes  you  gayly  deck. 
And  as  with  space,  even  so  with  time — 
Somewhat  similar  is  their  chime. 

But  how  I  do  admire  the  fools, 

Foolishness  so  easily  rules. 
They  seem  to  be  so  frank  and  jolly, 
Yet  boasting  in  their  love  of  folly; 


64  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Claim  that  not  to  know  at  all 
Marks  highest  wisdom  on  this  ball; 

And  that  upon  earth's  wrinkled  face, 

Of  God  there  is  not  any  trace. 

Says,  if  he  sits  on  nature's  throne, 
He  has  failed  to  make  it  known. 

And  yet  they  do  forever  try 

To  give  to  the  old  Book  the  lie. 

"Who  can  by  searching  find  out  God?" 
Search  every  byway,  every  road. 

You  can  not,  it  is  written  there; 

You  try,  it  will  end  in  despair. 

Who  can  by  searching  find  out  God? 
How  would  you  start — where  is  the -road? 

The  time  you  live  is  far  too  short; 

Your  efforts  all  must  prove  abort. 
But  is  there  no  way  you  can  tell 
But  Reason's  road?    None  suit  so  well. 

Let  us  compare,  then,  if  we  can, 

The  fatherhood  of  God  and  man. 
How  old,  then,  must  be  the  boy 
Who  never  was  his  father's  joy, 

Ere  said  father  he  picks  out 

By  Reason,  from  the  crowd  about? 
If  he  has  seen  of  years  say  ten, 
Can  he  so  thoroughly  know  men 

To  say,  by  Reason,  that  he  knows 
"That  is  my  father,  there  he  goes"? 

How  do  you  think  that  ten  short  years 
With  average  age  of  men  appears? 

Well,  so  that  we  make  the  figures  round, 

Say  ten  per  cent,  is  within  bound. 

Well,  do  you  think  your  race  has  seen 
One-tenth  of  all  that  time  has  been? 


DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER.  65 

No,  not  one-millionth  part  of  time, 
Say  nothing  of  eternity. 

But  do  you  know,  a  child  at  ten 

Knows  very  little  about  men? 
And  not  at  twenty  could  he  tell, 
If  Reason  all  things  else  should  quell ; 

If  he  searched  only  Reason's  road, 

At  thirty  he'd  give  up  the  job. 
For  Reason  can  not  all  things  tell, 
However  much  men's  heads  may  swell ; 

Especially  when  cramped  by  time, 

As  is  your  life  by  scythe  of  mine. 
And  yet,  how  many  men  do  doubt — 
Paternity  oft  figure  out — 
Sometimes  giggle,  sometimes  shout, 

Cause  they  their  father  do  not  know— 

And  feel  so  proud  that  it  is  so. 
And  yet,  if  threescore  years  and  ten 
Were  not  full  years  for  common  men ; 

If  they  could  live  ten  thousand  years, 

And  were  not  vexed  with  hopes  and  fears; 
But  Science  ever  followed  true, 
It  might  be  possible  for  you 

To  find  out  who  your  father  was, 

By  reasoning  from  Nature's  laws. 
But  if  'tis  foolishness  to  try, 
In  time  you  live  beneath  the  sky, 

To  tell  who  is  your  earthly  sire; 

How  much  more  foolish  to  aspire 
To  find  out  Him  who  rules  all  things — 
Your  Father,  Maker,  He  who  brings 

Matter  from  empty  void  or  space. 

Commands  come  from  his  holy  place; 
Force,  his  will  alone  is  cause; 
His  fiat,  all  of  Nature's  laws. 
6 


66  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Yet  some  would  trace  matter  and  force 
In  threescore  years  unto  their  source; 
That  says  a  good  deal  for  my  boss ; 

He  takes  some  of  earth's  smartest  men 

To  sparkle  in  his  diadem. 

But  is  there  no  way  you  can  tell? 
Are  you  so  bound  by  Reason's  spell? 

That  you  no  other  way  will  own 

You  are  your  earthly  father's  son? 

Is  that  so? 

Then  is  there  no  way  you  can  tell? 
Are  you  so  bound  by  Reason's  spell? 

Are  Nature's  laws  the  only  plan 

By  which  God  speaks  unto  a  man? 
If  Nature  had  sufficient  force, 
Why,  then,  should  he  have  had  recourse 

To  other  plans,  his  end  to  gain? 

Is  Nature  all  of  his  domain? 

If  men  were  only  a  compound 

Of  life  and  matter  from  the  ground, 

Nature  then  might  well  suffice 

To  satisfy  his  beastly  eyes. 

But  when  once  the  great  I  Am 
Breathed  his  spirit  into  man, 

Then  to  speak  with  him,  his  God 

Had  other  ways  than  Nature's  road; 
As  a  father  to  a  child, 
Though  rebellious  and  so  wild, 

Can  still  appeal  to  that  within — 

The  heart,  which  makes  them  feel  akin. 
They  have  got  one  common  cause — 
Stronger  bonds  than  Nature's  laws ; 

They  are  bound  by  higher  ties, 

Bonds  invisible  to  eyes. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  67 

So  with  you  to  the  I  Am, 

You  feel  a  power  describe  who  can; 
A  power  which  tells  that  you  should  be 
At  one  with  him  you  can  not  see. 

You  have  got  a  common  cause ; 

Your  Father  has  made  all  the  laws 
Which  spirits  rule;  Nature  the  same; 
They  are  all  of  his  domain. 

And  when  you  do  with  him  accord, 

Fullest  peace  his  laws  afford. 
Witness  how  those  who  rebel — 
What  unrest  their  spirits  tell. 

Oft  they  meet  as  Christians  do, 

Even  they  hire  preachers,  too, 
Just  to  tell  God  is  not  found, 
And  they  have  searched  the  world  around. 

Have  they  searched  all  other  stars, 

Or  did  they  find  ethereal  bars? 
Searched  they  with  glass  of  highest  power, 
And  scanned  the  heavens  at  midnight  hour? 

And  because  God  they  could  not  see, 

Say  that  found  he  could  not  be? 
Are  not  you  mortals  cranky,  though? 
What  of  Nature  do  you  know? 

Could  you  perforate  this  ball, 

Through  its  very  center  crawl, 
And  on  the  other  side  be  found, 
Leaving  a  tunnel  wide  and  round; 

Then  fit  with  glasses  cast  on  high, 

Adapted  to  the  human  eye; 
And  to  be  sure  that  they  are  right, 
Finished  by  angels  of  the  light; 

To  save  annoyance  by  the  weather. 

Have  one  end  out  into  the  ether ; 


68  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Could  you  peer  through  such  a  glass, 
And  watch  the  heavens  as  they  pass, 

Think  you  that  heaven  you  could  see — 

The  place  in  space  I  used  to  be? 
Oh,  you  crazy  mass  of  gall! 
Speck  upon  a  whirling  ball! 

Microbe  on  a  whirling  speck! 

Bow  the  heavens  at  your  beck? 
Size  you  all  things  by  that  head, 
Living  matter,  matter  dead; 

And  when  things  you  can  not  see, 

Smile  and  say  they  can  not  be. 
Suppose  a  glass  you  had  in  hand, 
As  seems  the  moon  from  where  you  stand, 

It  would  not  be  so  large  at  all 

As  many  that  are  on  this  ball. 
Now  some  way  get  into  your  face 
The  ratio  great  of  space  to  space ; 

And  when  you  grasp  the  farthest  star, 

Think  how  space  still  looms  out  afar. 
And  when  you  think,  and  think  your  fill, 
Know  always  there  is  further  still. 

When  you  o'er  this  have  gasped  and  conned, 

Remember  always  there  is  a  beyond. 
When  you  are  far  as  mind  can  see, 
Oh,  what  a  circle  that  must  be ! 
You  center  of  the  radii. 

And  when  you  find  such  thinking  dull, 

The  bounds  are  all  within  your  skull. 
Then  think  of  what  there  is  outside; 
The  space  you  grasped,  so  vast  and  wide, 
Where  God  might  be. 

But  how  I  do  admire  the  fool, 

Thinks  he  has  been  through  Nature's  school, 


DEATH   AND   THE  REPORTER.  69 

And  found  for  God  another  name — 
A  force  which  nearly  means  the  same; 

Or  simply  says  he  does  not  know, 

And  feels  so  proud  that  it  is  so. 
How  can  you  know  ?     The  time  you  live 
Is  but  a  day ;  it  does  not  give 

You  time  to  find  out  \vhere  you  are. 

You  think  you  live  upon  a  star, 
Or  on  a  planet  shining  round 
A  star,  you  a  piece  of  ground 

Evolved  or  made  in  some  such  way 

By  the  planet.     Time,  you  say, 
Will  do  it.     Do  what?     Make  matter  think? 
Well,  now,  let  me  give  you  the  wink; 

I'll  let  you  see  the  other  way; 

You  judge  if  'tis  the  truth  I  say. 

As  soon  as  what  was  done  we  found, 

Satan  went  a-nosing  round, 

Just  to  see  what  he  could  do, 
As  our  surmises  proved  so  true. 

And  hate  within  him  deeper  still 

Buried  and  nerved  his  desperate  will. 
Yes,  he  has  got  lots  of  gall, 
And  nerve  he  does  not  know  at  all. 

Into  God's  presence  he  would  go — 

Some  to  their  loss  have  found  it  so — 
Mingle  with  spirits  of  the  light, 
Himself  as  black  as  darkest  night; 

But  the  peer,  when  mind  is  rated, 

Of  any  that  was  e'er  created. 
And  he  knows  it,  that  alone 
Makes  him  prince  of  Evil's  throne; 

And  his  proud  heart  will  bow  to  none; 

To  be  a  creature  hardly  own. 


7O  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

He  went  nosing  round  to  see 

What  new  creature  here  could  be; 
What  Almighty  God  had  done 
Within  the  circuit  of  the  sun. 

For  he  remembered  creatures  fair, 

Long  ago,  beyond  the  air; 
What  he  did  to  gain  their  will ; 
How  faithfully  they  serve  him  still. 

And  he  thought  to  try  again, 

Perhaps  some  others  he  might  win. 
Witness  how  they  serve  him  now, 
Before  his  presence  humbly  bow; 

How  faithfully  he  holds  their  will, 

Conclusive  proof  of  Satan's  skill; 
How  the  heart  is  filled  with  hate, 
When  he,  their  ruler,  sits  in  state; 

How  they  scorn  the  offered  love, 

And  curse  the  very  God  above. 
How  this  last  does  Satan  please — 
Would  make  of  hell  a  throne  of  ease, 

Were  it  not  that  every  sin 

Awakens  something  dwelling  within. 
A  something,  though  so  nearly  dead, 
Will  not  die;  its  weary  head 

Can  not  rest  except  in  heaven ; 

Feels  sick,  though  all  things  else  were  given. 
But  this  unrest  he  tries  to  soothe 
By  doing  worse  at  every  move. 

And  none  of  all  the  moves  he  made, 

Nothing  that  he  e'er  essayed, 
So  gratifies  his  pride  of  head 
As  this  piece  of  work  he  did. 

Except  perhaps  what  he  had  done 

Ere  gravitation  systems  swung; 


DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER.  /I 

The  effect  of  which  on  me 

Made  the  wretched  fright  you  see. 

And  it  was  the  self-same  plan 

Worked  with  angels  as  with  man ; 
Worked  the  same  on  himself, 
Whose  record  now  is  on  the  shelf, 

Where  as  truth  we  demonstrate 

Laws  inexorable  as  fate. 

Ah!  well  do  I  now  recollect, 
And  never,  never  shall  forget, 

Long  ago,  before  that  time 

Soiled  eternity  with  slime, 
When  'twas  whispered  in  my  ear 
That  a  crisis  now  was  near, 

And  that  a  great  deal  did  depend — 

In  fact,  that  the  whole  thing  might  end — 
On  the  view  that  I  should  take, 
On  the  move  that  I  should  make. 

For  a  while  he  scarce  wrould  tell, 

And  guess,  I  could  not  very  well; 
Wondered  what  could  be  the  game, 
Cautioned  not  to  breathe  the  same. 

Finally  I  found  it  out, 

Whispered  to  me  round  about. 
Asked  if  I  would  join  in 
When  the  rupture  should  begin; 
Said  that  we  were  sure  to  win. 

Satan  long  was  figuring  round, 

And  showed  some  facts  did  me  astound ; 
Said  he  firmly  did  believe 
We  had  no  word  that  meant  "deceive" ; 

And  in  whispers  low  did  state 

That  the  Creator  was  create 

By  some  hoary  laws  called  Fate. 


72  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

Had  suspected  it  for  quite  a  time, 

Now  had  figured  it  down  fine. 

And  he  claimed  the  great  I  Am 
Did  not  wish  to  have  him  scan 

Where  heaven's  archives  do  relate 

This  product  of  the  laws  of  Fate. 
But  he  claimed  in  looking  round 
He  the  final  truth  had  found. 

Well,  I  asked  him,  there  and  then, 

Who  made  Fate's  laws — where  and  when 
They  evolved?     What  was  before, 
To  plan  the  brightness  we  adore? 

Asked  if  the  place  we  call  heaven 

Was  a  far  outlying  realm 

Of  some  kingdom  far  away 
God  deputed  by  their  say? 

Told  him  I  would  like  to  go 

To  headquarters,  there  to  know 

Truth  from  the  fountain  of  the  light, 
For,  at  second  hand,  'tis  darkest  night. 

Asked  him  if  I  might  not  see ; 

He  promised  he  would  show  to  me 
The  record  in  eternity 
Of  life's  mysterious  mystery. 

In  confidence  I  then  was  told, 

If  I  to  the  first  step  was  bold, 

I  might  as  a  charter  member  be 
One  of  the  rulers  of  Eternity. 

In  fact,  creation  we  mapped  out; 

We  were  all  to  take  a  turn  about; 
Depose  Jehovah  from  his  throne; 
When  he  went  off,  we  would  go  on. 

And  as  the  fates  were  paralyzed, 

Satan  had  this  plan  devised. 


DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER.  73 

We  were  to  be,  strange  as  it  seem, 

Compared  with  all  things  else,  the  cream. 
We  were  to  be.     That  awful  thought 
Al)  misery  and  ruin  wrought; 

Torn  from  the  vine  the  branches  lie, 

Filled  with  sour  sap,  yet  can  not  die — 
Satan  was  to  be,  of  course, 
Of  power  and  all  things  else  the  source. 

I  was  to  be — ah,  that  was  love's  knell! 

When  the  big  "I"  commenced  to  swell; 
When  this  ugly  thing  called  self 
First  evolved  the  horrid  elf. 
How  I  wish  that  on  a  shelf 

I  could  plant  it  underground, 

So  nevermore  it  might  be  found. 
But  it  swelled  and  swelled,  and  burst 
The  law  of  love,  of  all  laws  first. 

For  never  can  this  old  law  bind 

Where  self  is  highest  in  the  mind. 
At  this  time  we  were  further  from 
The  Almighty's  central  throne 

Than  you  are  now. 

Heaven  is  immense,  if  space  you  speak  of  there. 
As  hell  is  now  to  me,  it  then  was  everywhere. 

Thus  things  went  on  for  quite  a  while, 

And  Satan  many  did  beguile; 
Until,  emboldened  by  success, 
He  got  us  in  a  fearful  mess, 

Trying  to  tamper  with  the  book, 

Where  every  action,  every  look, 
Of  each  and  every  one,  is  kept 
By  eyelids  that  have  never  slept. 

This  living  creature  he  approached, 

And  covertly  his  plan  he  broached. 


74  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

But  when  told  it  is  absurd; 

You  can  not  alter  here  one  word; 

The  truth  in  this  place  must  be  kept, 
Though  of  all  things  else  'tis  swept ; 

There  is  no  thought  you  e'er  conceived, 

Not  an  ethereal  web  been  weaved; 
You  never  studied  out  a  plan 
Some  pure  spirit  for  to  damn ; 

Twisted  it  round  in  various  ways, 

And  looked  at  it  in  every  phase, 

But  what  each  phase  of  what  you  thought 
Is  written,  ne'er  to  be  forgot. 

When  you  in  secret  conclave  met, 

So  secret  that  no  date  was  set, 

No  record  of  it  a  page  should  spoil, 
Lest  it  might  your  purpose  foil, 

That  record  here  is  written  down, 

Engrossed,  engraved,  unaltered  by  your  frown. 
The  names  of  each  and  every  one 
Who  to  thy  wiles  may  have  succumbed 

Are  here ;  you  here  the  roll  can  call, 

The  roster  find  containing  all. 

Some  say  Satan  held  his  breath, 
As  you  would  say  upon  the  earth; 

With  others  I  my  doubts  evince — 

He  was  never  known  to  wince ; 
And  as  this  is  what  he  said, 
I'm  sure  he  did  not  lose  his  head. 
"Well,  you  seem  to  know  it  all; 

I  must  admire  your  wondrous  gall. 

Not  only  your  own  business  know, 
But  probing  into  all  things  go. 

Surely  you  must  have  found  some  things 

That  to  your  thinking  power  now  brings 


DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER.  75 

Amazement;  and  I  rather  fear, 
As  your  own  records  now  appear, 

You  have  put  truth  upon  the  throne, 

Where  he  was  thought  to  rule  alone. 

But  you  are  right,  for  changes  come — 
There  never  was  a  changeless  one ; 

And  such  a  change  is  coming  now — 

Truth  from  that  throne  to  me  may  bow. 
It  may,  it  must,  the  time  has  come, 
And  the  old  Powers  their  course  have  run. 

So  now  you  have  a  chance  to  grace 

With  the  new  Powers  an  honored  place, 
Much  higher  than  the  one  you  fill, 
If  you  have  heart  and  power  of  will. 

Now  it  is  for  you  to  say — 

The  fight  is  on,  I  must  away." 

"You  must  away — no  word  has  come 

From  either  Father  or  the  Son. 
Yet  no  command  to  you  has  gone, 
But  what  we  always  have  it  known. 

'Tis  all  we  know,  the  truth  to  write; 

We've  done  it  since  we  first  saw  light ; 
And  we  propose  to  still  keep  on, 
While  we  have  aught  to  write  upon. 

And  truth,  truth  only,  we  will  write, 

Till  you  turn  brightness  into  night. 
And  when  to  this  place  you  come  'round, 
A  faithful  record  will  be  found 

Of  the  struggle,  howe'er  fierce, 

When  truth  succumbs  to  perfidy. 
But  to  this  place  before  you  come, 
As  master  and  the  peerless  one, 
Think,  Satan,  think,  what  must  be  done. 

Can  you  move  the  throne  of  God? 

How  would  you  stagger  with  the  load? 


76  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Can  a  creature  ever  fight 

The  Creator  in  his  might? 
Has  Jehovah  then  create 
One  who  can  make  him  abdicate?" 

"Now,  then,"  said  Satan,  "listen,  hear — 
From  your  own  records  'twill  appear. 

From  the  truth  that  you  have  kept, 

I'll  prove  that  God  let  something  slip; 
That  there  was  one  God  did  create, 
Who  broke  the  laws  that  God  did  make — 

Is  this  God's  plan?    Did  he  it  all  design? 

Or  is  it  weakness?     Then  the  fight  is  mine. 
If  he  has  planned  it,  am  I  then  to  blame? 
And  for  his  scheming  must  I  suffer  shame? 

Now  do  not  for  a  moment  think 

I  rashly  took  this  step;  then  well  might  I  shrink, 
And  fear  the  future.     Long,  long  ere  ever  I  essayed 
To  breathe  my  purpose  unto  others,  I  arrayed 

Each  fact  I  knew  before  my  mental  gaze; 

Studied  each  point,  tried  all  in  various  ways, 
And  thought,  and  thought,  and  thought; 
As  long,  at  least,  as  half  eternity  I  thought. 

Did  God  this  know?    If  so,  to  stop  me  did  he  try? 

If  not — 'tis  simple  courtesy  to  tell  me  why. 
When  first  I  dreamed  of  this    (I   scarce  dare   call   it 

thought), 
I  turned  away,  it  such  strange  feelings  brought; 

And  not  for  ages  did  I  ever  dare 

That  same  sensation  feel  that  I  felt  there. 
Did  God  this  know?    Was  not  that  time  to  talk? 

But  as  the  eons  upon  eons  roll, 

I  did  attempt  again  to  grasp  the  whole, 
And  in  course  of  my  research  I  found 
Facts  that  would  even  you  astound. 


DEATH   AND   THE  REPORTER.  77 

With  all  the  knowledge  handed  down  the  ages, 
I  know  some  things  not  written  on  your  pages. 

Some  things  perhaps  beyond  your  grasp, 

Dealing  with  matters  of  the  hoary  past. 

Things  that  were  penned  before  you  ever  wrote  a  line, 
Telling  how  God  became  your  God  and  mine. 

And  now  Jehovah  has  unto  his  limit  come — 

Satan  has  grasped  the  chance  and  victory  has  won." 

"Satan !     I  know  it  all,"  the  creature  said, 

"I  know  just  when  and  where  the  break  was  made. 
And  how  you  felt — it  all  is  written  down, 
Where  pen  ne'er  writes,  and  where  no  words  slip  tongue. 

Unto  the  veriest  fraction  of  eternity  I  knew; 

How  long  the  seed  lay  dormant  until  it  grew. 
You  only  prove  to  me,"  again  the  creature  said, 

"That  I  a  creature  am,  and  God  did  not  me  create 

With  all  wisdom;  but  that  I  must  wait 
And  see  his  plans  evolve,  see  mystery  unfold; 
His  wisdom  yet  hath  depths  that  are  untold; 

'Tis  boundless  as  his  love.     I  can  not  grasp  it  all. 
Neither,  think  I,  can  you." 

"You  think  I  can  not — you  will  see  me  try; 

And  if  I  do  not — find  the  reason  why. 

But  when  I  do  unto  this  place  come  back, 
You  still  can  keep  the  records;  remind  me  of  the 
fact." 

So  Satan  said,  and  then  away  he  went 

To  force  conclusions  till  his  power  was  spent. 

Then  we  massed  ourselves  together; 

What  a  bond  we  had  to  sever; 
And  what  a  horrid,  fearful  tie 
Bound  each  one  else  to  each  big  L 


78  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

And  when  the  heavenly  hosts  did  gather 
Around  the  omnipresent  Father, 

I  might  tell  you  how  we  fought, 

But  it  is  beyond  your  thought; 
You  have  nothing  to  compare 
With  the  mode  of  our  warfare. 

But  if  ever  you  get  there, 

Where  everything  is  bright  and  fair, 
I  would  advise  you  search  it  out — 
'Tis  something  well  worth  reading  about. 

Yes,  they  did  us  badly  whip, 

And  sent  us  reeling  to  the  pit. 

Oh,  that  they  had  left  us  there, 
Writhing  in  torture  and  despair! 

But  who  can  tell  the  wondrous  plan? 

Who  can  judge  of  the  I  Am? 

Who  can  tell  when  truth  is  done, 
When  once  the  record  is  begun? 

Who  can  tell  when  discord's  notes 

Chime  with  heaven's  brightest  hopes? 
No;  the  race  of  sin  and  crime 
Had  not  run  the  appointed  time, 

Had  not  reached  the  degradation 

Dark  rebellion's  scintillation; 

Formed  no  background  for  the  love 
Of  the  Almighty  God  above, 

Which  we  had  ruptured  and  despised, 

Which  yet  will  more  and  more  be  prized. 

We  thought  we  were  this  law's  disgrace — 
Must  prove  it  has  the  highest  place. 

When  we  try  to  grasp  the  truth, 

And  trace  God's  hand  back  to  our  youth, 
How  imperious  in  his  acts 
God  is — we  trace  through  all  the  facts. 


DEATH  AND  THE  REPORTER.  79 

What  we  thought  we  had  o'erthrown, 
We  must  to  every  age  make  known 

Is  true,  and  truth  is  very  strong; 

There  is  no  weakness  but  the  wrong. 
And  as  we  ever  toil  and  toil, 
He  our  efforts  e'er  will  foil, 

So  that  we  work  within  the  plan; 

We,  knowing,  curse  as  curse  we  can, 
And  plot  and  toil  without  cessation — 
The  laughing-stock  of  vast  creation. 

But  surely  Satan  must  have  felt, 

When  to  this  last  job  he  knelt, 
This  job  seems  almost  a  disgrace 
To  one  who  fills  the  highest  place; 

Who,  when  mind  alone  is  rated, 

Equals  any  e'er  created. 
It  certainly  was  fearful  low, 
And  he  must  have  felt  it  so, 

From  the  job  he  did  on  me — 

Almost  his  equal  who  should  be. 
But  this  creature  of  a  day — 
One-half  spirit,  one-half  clay — 

It  must  have  made  him  feel  so  small 

To  do  this  kind  of  work  at  all. 
He  brags  about  it  all  the  same, 
As  if  you  were  of  heaven's  game. 

The  way  'twas  done,  as  you  expect, 

I'll  tell,  if  I  can  recollect. 
Or,  rather,  I  will  tell  to  you, 
And  judge  with  me  if  it  is  true. 

For  many  a  way  heard  I  it  told, 

And  truth  is  scarce  where  lies  are  bold. 
He  as  an  angel  of  the  light, 
As  near  as  one  could  tell  by  sight, 


8o  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Was  walking  in  the  field  without, 
When  Eve  one  day  was  looking  out. 

Within  himself  there  came  this  thought : 
"Here  is  the  chance  I  long  have  sought," 
And  as  the  lady  he  addressed, 
Rapture  his  countenance  expressed; 
"Fairest  creature,  I  have  come; 

I,  the  angel  of  the  sun, 

Had  it  whispered  in  my  ear 
There  was  something  pretty  here; 

And  it  unto  me  was  told, 

The  Creator,  who  of  old 

Made  us  all,  and  made  us  well, 
Who  can  all  his  wonders  tell ! 
Had  been  trying  to  excel 

In  a  masterpiece  of  art — 

Beauty  wrought  in  every  part. 
Yes,  the  sunbeams  said  to  me 
Here  was  something  I  should  see; 

Something  that  was  fairer  far 

Than  anything  on  any  star. 

And  I  dreamt  of  beauty  fair 
Musing  in  the  sunbeams  there, 

But  never  in  my  brightest  dream 

Dreamt  I  loveliness  could  beam, 

Thought  I  beauty  could  be  seen, 
As  mine  eyes  do  now  behold — 
The  half  to  me  was  never  told. 

Surely,  you  must  be  the  one, 

Fairest  ideal !  'neath  the  sun, 

Surely  the  last  evolved  are  you, 
To  loveliness  and  beauty  true." 

"Yes,  you  are  right,"  the  lady  said, 
"I  am  the  last  that  he  has  made; 


DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER.  8l 

I  am  the  last  work  of  his  hands — 
His  last  design  before  you  stands. 

But  would  you  please  to  come  with  me, 

And  the  noble  Adam  see. 
I  his  helpmate  only  am, 
He  is  God's  ideal  man, 
Built  from  the  great  Creator's  plan. 

He  will  be  pleased  with  you  to  talk, 

And  round  about  the  garden  walk, 

And  show  you  all  of  God's  works  here, 
Which  everywhere  our  hearts  do  cheer; 

Then  you  may  have  with  us  some  fruit, 

When  we  gather  at  the  foot 

Of  a  tree  that  shades  us  well, 
In  a  pleasant,  leafy  dell." 

"Excuse  me,  lady,"  Satan  said, 
"Your  kindness  ne'er  can  be  repaid; 

But  I,  the  angel  of  the  light, 

Must  reach  the  sun  before  'tis  night; 
You  see  I  have  such  work  to  do, 
I  could  not  well  explain  to  you. 

Not  only  do  I  rule  the  sun — 

To  me  that  would  be  only  fun — 
But  the  stars  control  I  all; 
That  leaves  me  little  time  to  call. 

Yet  some  time  I  will  try  repay 

The  kindness  you  have  shown  to-day. 
On  a  sunbeam  we  may  go, 
And  lots  of  things  you  then  will  know, 

That  now  you  can  not  know  at  all, 

Confined  within  this  garden  wall. 
I  wish  I  could  on  Adam  call; 
Time  flies,  and  soon  the  night  will  fall ; 

But  having  seen  the  best  the  last, 

Mine  eyes  thy  lovely  form  hold  fast; 

0 


82  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

The  tresses  that  do  thee  adorn 

Are  like  the  rosy  tints  of  morn — 

Should  I  see  some  one  not  so  fair, 
Might  spoil  the  image  written  there. 

Last  efforts  always  are  the  best; 

God's  works  improve  like  all  the  rest. 
What  did  you  tell  me,  if  you  please, 
You  eat  the  fruit  from  off  the  trees? 

Is  all  the  fruit,  then,  good  to  eat? 

Does  any  ever  prove  a  cheat? 

I  wish  that  I  had  time  to  stay 

And  learn  how  well  you  spend  the  day." 

"Well,"  said  the  mother  of  your  race, 
"If  you  can  not  see  his  face, 

If  the  sun  you  have  to  meet — 

I  think  the  sunbeams  are  so  sweet — 

I'll  see  what  Adam  has  to  say, 

And  we  may  go  with  you  some  day. 

Please  call  again  when  you  have  time, 
We  will  show  to  you  each  tree  and  vine. 

Of  all  the  fruit  we  freely  eat, 

It  is  so  juicy,  nice  and  sweet; 

But  of  one  tree  that  towers  on  high, 
We  must  not  eat  or  we  will  die." 

"Indeed,"  said  Satan,  "is  that  so? 

I  am  really  sorry  I  must  go. 

But  it  seems  to  be  so  strange, 

It  almost  seems  our  God  must  change; 

That  same  thing  he  has  done  of  late 

With  everything  he  has  create — 
Always  something  not  to  do, 
For  if  you  do,  I'll  punish  you — 

Something  thus  he  hedges  round 

With  terrors  fearful,  vague,  profound; 


DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER.  83 

To  see  how  long  'twill  serve  to  keep 

From  something  luscious,  nice  and  sweet; 
And  pleasures  one  can  never  know 
Until  they  try  and  find  it  so. 

This  he  has  done  so  many  times 

Among  the  stars  in  other  climes. 
Why  does  he  thus?    We  may  surmise; 
And  there  must  be  some  reason.     The  All-Wise 

Would  never  into  perfect  bliss 

Even  hint  of  misery. 

Some  strange  things  God  has  done  of  late, 
And  this  is  one.     I  must  investigate; 

And  promise  you,  ere  I  come  back, 

To  look  it  up.     And  note  the  fact, 
That  the  great  God,  who  can  not  lie, 
Has  talked  of  death  to  those  who  never  die. 

What  can  be  his  reason 

To  talk  of  things  so  out  of  season? 
But  do  you  think  a  thing  so  fair, 
That  sheds  a  halo  in  the  air, 

The  best  and  last  work  of  his  hand, 

Beauty  evolved  at  his  command ; 
Think  you  this  pretty  thing  to  mar, 
He  would  a  power  put  on  this  star, 

With  myriad  stars  before  his  face, 

To  find  for  it  a  resting  place? 
But  now  there  comes  to  me  a  thought, 
And  proof  conclusive  it  has  brought — 

Do  you  know  you  can  not  die? 

Tell  you  I  will  the  reason  why. 
You  have  the  breath  of  the  I  Am, 
His  breath  of  life  he  breathed  in  man. 

No,  you  can  never  cease  exist; 

Firm  as  the  earth  this  truth  is  fixed. 


84  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

It  must  be  just  as  I  surmised, 
Something  is  hid  he  highly  prized; 

And  something  that  will  you  surprise, 
When  you  some  day  shall  ope  your  eyes. 
But  I  must  go,  I've  stayed  too  long, 
Your  pretty  face  to  look  upon. 

Adieu,  thou  sweetest  thing  in  space, 
Thou  fairest  of  the  fairy  race; 
Adieu!"     One  longing  look  he  cast, 
Then  from  her  range  of  vision  passed. 

The  lady  stood  and  gazed  a  while, 
Where  she  had  seen  the  angel  smile; 

Then  turning,  to  herself  did  say: 
"I  must  see  Adam  right  away. 

Something  now  I  have  to  tell, 

That,  I  think,  should  please  him  well; 

A  good  time  we  will  have  some  day — 

I  hope  it  is  not  far  away. 

We  will  on  a  sunbeam  go, 

And  every  wonder  he  will  show. 

Yes,  what  we  know  is  very  small, 

Confined  within  this  garden  wall. 
But  how  it  Adam  will  surprise, 
Make  him  open  wide  his  eyes. 

The  angels  talking  unto  me; 

'Twas  he  they  always  came  to  see. 
Now  I  will  tell  him  all  I  know ; 
Next  time  with  me  he'll  surely  go. 

But  what  was  it  about  that  tree 

The  angel  said?    What  can  it    be? 
Perhaps  I  will  pass  by  that  way; 
Well,  I  had  better  not  to-day; 

I  think  I  will  see  Adam  first, 

He  never  seemed  to  care  to  trust 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  85 

Me  round  about  that  way  at  all. 

Does  he  imagine  I  will  fall? 
Why,  where  it  is  I  hardly  know, 
If  I  chose  I  could  not  go; 

Locate  the  tree  I  now  will  try; 

A  long  way  off  I  will  pass  by. 
Well,  there  it  is,  just  where  I  thought; 
Why  in  the  garden  was  it  brought? 

Why  not  on  some  other  star 

Where  no  fairy  figures  are? 
But  how  it  trembles,  shakes  all  o'er, 
From  the  leaflets  to  the  core. 

There  is  no  wind.     What  can  it  be? 

I  must  go  nearer  just  to  see. 
Oh,  see  that  snake!  and  it  will  die." 
"Come  down ;  for  if  the  fruit  you  try, 

The  voice  of  Him  who  gave  you  breath 

Hath  said  that  it  will  be  your  death." 

The  serpent  paused,  his  mouth  was  full; 

He  craunched  his  jaws  and  took  it  cool. 
Then  filled  again  his  mouth  with  fruit, 
Pleasure  expressed  by  move  and  look. 

The  lady  stood  as  though  entranced; 

His  shining  eyeballs  fairly  danced. 
Again,  again  his  mouth  he  fills, 
And  every  nerve  with  rapture  thrills. 

But"  see,  he  moves  his  jaws  again, 

The  lady  thought  he  was  in  pain ; 

And  from  his  bivalve  mouth  there  came 
Mumbled  words  in  muttering  strain. 

The  lady's  eyes  were  on  the  watch, 

Her  ears  the  following  words  did  catch: 

"I  climbed  this  tree,  a  very  brute, 
To  fill  my  belly  with  the  fruit. 


86  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

What  strange  sensations  through  me  thrilled 

When  first  my  mouth  with  fruit  I  filled. 
I  was  a  brute,  and  never  dreamt, 
Before  this  time,  what  knowledge  meant. 

I  was  a  brute,  and  as  brute  content; 

Never  my  fate  could  I  lament, 

This  fruit,  O  joy!  this  fruit!  my  mouth 
Of  words  shall  never  know  the  drouth. 

And  more  than  that:  I've  found  a  mind 

That  must  be  of  the  angel  kind. 

I  was  a  brute,  and  did  not  know 
A  brute's  a  brute  for  being  so. 

But  it  will  not  do  for  me 

To  stay  too  long  upon  this  tree; 
I  must  get  some  other  snake 
His  mouth  to  open  and  partake." 

Then  at  the  lady  he  did  glance, 

And  said  he  would  pull  down  a  branch, 
If  the  fruit  she  wished  to  try, 
As  it  was  hanging  rather  high. 

"Oh,  no!  thank  you,"  said  your  mother, 
"Please  excuse  me;  I  would  rather 

Tell  Adam  all  that  I  have  seen — 
He  ought  to  know  where  I  have  been; 
For  we  heard  it  from  the  Lord — 
I  heard  him  speak  it  word  by  word — 
Of  all  the  fruit  to  freely  eat, 
They  are  all  to  us  for  meat ; 
But  of  this  tree,  that  towers  on  high, 
'Touch  not,  eat  not,  lest  ye  die.' ': 

"Can  that  be  so?"  the  serpent  paid; 

"Surely  you  do  not  call  me  dead ! 
But  I  was  dead  an  hour  ago; 
Now  joyous  life  does  through  me  flow. 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  87 

'Ye  shall  not  eat  or  ye  shall  die/ 

Gave  he  any  reason  why? 
It  must  be  that  he  speaks  of  death 
Not  as  a  losing  of  the  breath, 

But  leaving  the  old  self  behind — 

An  evolution  of  the  mind. 
That  must  be  so,  'twas  so  with  me; 
A  very  brute,  I  climbed  this  tree. 

But  now  the  brute  in  me  is  dead. 

I  live,  but  with  another  head. 
O  God!  what  joy  this  fruit  has  given, 
Like  rising  from  the  earth  to  heaven. 

O  lady!  I  tell  you  now  the  truth, 

Though  my  thoughts  are  in  their  youth; 
The  reason  he  has  told  you  so 
Is  that,  he  very  well  doth  know, 

That  in  the  day  you  eat  this  fruit, 

Of  Reason  you  shall  know  the  root; 
That  even  as  the  gods  on  high, 
Good  and  evil  you  may  try; 

Your  eyes  will  open,  you  will  see 

Why  and  wherefore  things  should  be. 
No  longer  then  will  he  command, 
But  try  to  make  you  understand. 

No  longer  say,  'Do  this  or  die,' 

But  give  to  you  the  reason  why. 
Of  course,  you  do  just  as  you  please; 
Rise  now,  or  take  inglorious  ease. 

This  morn  at  your  command  I  was; 

A  brute,  that  could  not  say  'because/ 
But  now  on  higher  ground  I  stand — 
The  peer  of  any  in  the  land; 

And  higher  still  I  shall  ascend, 

With  all  the  beasts  that  shall  attend 


88  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

To  me,  and  eat,  and  ever  know 
The  joys  that  from  all  wisdom  flow. 

And  you  shall  be  where  now  they  are, 
The  lowest  forms  upon  the  star; 
For  when  all  the  beasts  attend 
And  eat  their  fill,  this  tree  will  end. 

For  some  you  know  must  servants  be; 
Choose  now  your  fate,  be  bond  or  free. 
If  Adam  had  come  with  you  here, 
You  could  never  be  his  peer ; 

For  he  would  eat,  and  then  would  you, 
And  thus  remain  his  helpmate  true. 
But  should  the  first  place  you  attain, 
Can  he  catch  up  with  you  again? 
So  now  you  do  as  you  incline — 
Rise  or  fall,  the  choice  is  thine." 

The  serpent's  tail  he  coiled  around 
The  tree  stem  nearly  at  the  ground; 

His  head  he  twisted  round  a  branch, 
The  fruit  he  brought  within  the  launch 
Of  Eve's  fair  arm,  who  smiling  stood, 
And  said:    "This  fruit  looks  very  good, 
And  sure  it  must  be  good  to  eat; 
It  looks  so  luscious,  nice  and  sweet. 
Of  juice  it  does  not  show  a  drouth, 
But  brings  the  water  in  my  mouth. 

Now  do  not  think,  you  shining  snake, 
When  I  of  this  fruit  partake, 
I  did  not  know  before  you  told ; 
What  angels  said  now  makes  me  bold. 
I  know  it  must  be  as  you  say — 
I've  heard  so  much  of  that  to-day." 

She  took  the  fruit  into  her  hand, 
She  ate  of  it,  pronounced  it  grand; 


DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER.  89 

To  fill  her  hands  again  she  tries ; 

Instead,  stepped  back  in  dire  surprise. 
"What  have  I  done,  you  slimy  thing? 
What  did  I  do,  this  curse  to  bring? 

Now  I  know  that  I  shall  die, 

Do  whatever  I  may  try. 

Where,  oh,  where  now  shall  I  fly? 
Shall  I  leave  this  garden  fair, 
And  lie  upon  the  plains  out  there? 

There  is  a  fearful  change  in  me — 

Can  this  be  death?     Oh,  can  it  be! 
What  shall  I  do?     Where  shall  I  go? 
I  feel  it  now — the  dreadful  woe." 

The  serpent  said:    "What  you  have  done, 

A  victory  to  me  hath  won. 
You  now  are  doomed;  you  now  must  die, 
It  matters  not  where  you  may  fly. 

But  good  and  evil  now  you  know — 

Was  it  not  I  who  told  you  so? 
Perhaps  you  wish  to  die  alone ; 
Not  I,  though  prince  of  Evil's  throne. 

Rather  would  I  die  with  all  the  rest, 

And  let  Him  do  what  He  thinks  best. 
If  you  and  me  He  makes  to  fall, 
Can  it  be  our  fault  at  all? 

Still,  He  might  punish  one  alone; 

But  if  all  beneath  the  throne 
Should  break  His  laws,  what  will  He  do? 
What  will  be  when  all  the  crew 

Are  bad?     He  may  some  arrangement  make, 

And  not  the  life  of  all  things  take. 
If  some  be  good  and  some  be  bad, 
Some  may  rejoice  and  some  be  sad. 

He  an  example  of  the  lost 

May  make  the  good  at  fearful  cost. 


DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER. 

But  if  there  is  no  one  to  warn, 
None  from  the  suffering  culprit  learn; 
If  all  are  down,  and  down  the  same, 
Then  He  may  modify  the  game, 
And  either  punish  lighter  far, 
Or  quite  disgusted  leave  the  star. 
Now  you  get  Adam  to  join  in 
And  be  a  partner  of  your  sin. 
How  can  you  stand  alone  when  God 
Comes  round  to  punish  with  the  rod? 
Better  have  Adam  talk  for  you — 
What  does  for  one  will  do  for  two." 

You  nasty,  slimy,  horrid  thing! 
Deceiving  wretch!  this  curse  to  bring 

On  me,"  said  Eve,  "and  will  I  take 

Advice  from  you,  accursed  snake? 
Think  you  I  love  Deception's  voice? 
In  sin  and  wrong  do  I  rejoice? 

Where  shall  I  go?  what  shall  I  do? 

My  heart  is  breaking  now  in  two! 
I  will  tell  Adam  what  is  done, 
If  never  more  I  see  the  sun; 

And  then  this  garden  I  must  leave; 

You  heartless  wretch,  me  to  deceive. 
Must  I  now  go  away  and  die, 
Your  cruel  heart  to  satisfy?" 

"Well,  now,"  said  Satan,  "should  you  go 
And  tell  to  Adam  all  this  woe, 

He  will  hardly  you  believe, 

Will  think  you  some  way  must  deceive. 
But  if  you  take  some  fruit  along, 
Soon  as  he  sets  his  eyes  upon 

The  cursed  stuff,  then  he  will  know 

'Tis  truth  you  tell,  though  hard  the  blow. 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  91 

That  is  the  better  way  to  do, 

Take  some  fruit  along  with  you. 
Rise  above  all  slavish  fear; 
As  you  are,  always  appear. 

Take  the  bad  and  good  together; 

Never  more  can  you  them  sever. 
See  what  Adam  says  and  does ; 
Suppose  he  makes  an  awful  fuss, 

You  more  than  his  equal  are, 

The  wisest  creature  on  the  star." 

Then  Eve  said  she  would  take  some  fruit, 
But  no  advice  from  any  brute. 

Her  hands  she  filled  from  off  the  tree, 

Then  Adam  she  went  off  to  see. 
She  found  him  resting  all  alone; 
A  monarch  seated  on  his  throne. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  said,  "what  have  I  done?" 

And  down  her  cheeks  the  tears  did  run. 
Adam  started  up  in  fright. 
'My  dear,"  he  said,  "you  are  all  right." 
"No,  no,"  she  said,  "I  am  all  wrong; 

My  joy,  my  hope,  my  life  is  gone." 
Her  arms  then  went  swinging  round, 
And  she  fell  fainting  to  the  ground. 

How  quickly  Adam's  heart  did  leap 

As  lovely  Eve  fell  at  his  feet, 
His  first  experience  of  that  kind 
Worked  like  a  charm  upon  his  mind. 

"What  is  the  matter,  tripped  on  a  root?" 

And  then  he  saw  that  deadly  fruit. 
'Dead !  dead !"  he  said,  "dead !  dead !  and  gone, 
The  prettiest  thing  I  e'er  looked  on. 

Oh,  sweetness,  speak  to  me  again; 

Tell  how  it  happened,  where  and  when. 


92  DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER. 

I  should  have  been  with  you,  I  know; 

I  am  to  blame  for  all  this  woe. 

Just  whisper  to  me  if  you  can — 
Why  did  I  treat  you  as  a  man? 

You  in  charge  to  me  were  given, 

Lost  you  have  I  to  earth  and  heaven." 

The  woman's  bosom  gently  heaved, 
The  fragrant  air  again  she  breathed; 
Then  sighing  deeply,  looked  around, 
With  effort  feeble  speech  was  found. 
"O  Adam!  I  have  done  you  wrong 
In  the  short  time  that  I  was  gone; 
Deceived  by  snakes  and  angels,  I 
The  fruit  have  eaten  and  must  die. 
I  did  not  mean  to,  but,  you  see, 
They  told  such  stories  unto  me." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Adam,  "that  is  bad, 

I  really  wish  you  never  had; 

But  then  perhaps  you  won't  die  now." 
And  kissed  the  sweat  drops  from  her  brow. 
"Oh!"  said  the  woman,  "had  I  known, 

Quick  from  his  presence  I  had  gone; 
But  I  was  nowhere  at  the  time, 
Never  dreaming  of  a  crime, 

Only  looking  out  the  gate 

At  what  the  Father  had  create, 
When  this  angel  came  along, 
And  commenced  his  cursed  song. 

He  praised  God's  works  as  seen  in  me, 

And  you  I  wanted  him  to  see. 

But  no — he  said  he  would  come  again, 
And  with  a  sunbeam  for  a  train 

We  would  then  for  pleasure  go 

And  see  all  sights  above,  below. 


DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER.  93 

Then  he  lied  about  the  Lord 
And  threw  discredit  on  his  word; 

Told  me  that  the  fruit  forbidden 

Was  some  great  good  that  thus  was  hidden. 
Said  God  had  done  such  things  of  late 
In  other  stars  in  distant  state. 

Then  I  thought  to  come  to  you, 

Lay  what  he  said  before  your  view. 
But  just  as  I  was  coming  here, 
The  tree  forbidden  I  passed  near; 

And  saw  it  shake  as  it  might  fall, 

Although  there  was  no  wind  at  all. 

And  there  a  cursed  snake  I  found, 
And  with  his  jaws  the  fruit  he  ground. 

I  thought  that  surely  he  would  die; 

Instead,  commence  to  talk  did  try; 

And  claimed  the  fruit  had  changed  him  from 
The  brute  into  a  higher  zone. 

And  he  could  talk;  and  so  I  thought, 

If  such  a  change  in  him  it  wrought, 
That  what  the  angel  said  to  me 
Was  surely  true  as  true  could  be, 

And  so  the  cursed  fruit  I  took 

And  ate  it;  now  see  how  I  look! 

What  do  you  think  the  cursed  snake 
Then  wanted  me  to  undertake? 

Adam,  he  wanted  me  to  try 

To  get  you  eat  the  fruit  and  die. 
But  no;  I  tell  to  you  the  truth, 
And  take  a  warning  from  my  youth: 

When  I  this  garden  leave  for  good, 

Forever  quit  the  neighborhood; 
When  in  the  wilderness  I  go, 
And  when  on  me  this  curse  must  flow, 


94  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

When  into  the  darkest  night 

I     pass  forever  from  your  sight; 

Oh,  Adam,  did  I  ever  you  deceive? 

Or  did  I  ever  make  believe? 
No;  I  will  go  and  die  alone, 
With  many  a  pang  and  many  a  groan." 

"Hush,  hush,"  said  Adam,  "pretty  dear, 
You  make  me  feel  so  very  queer; 

Something  swells  within  my  breast, 

Might  burst  if  go  you  still  persist. 

Something  is  choking  up  my  throat. 
Where  is  the  fruit  this  trouble  brought? 

Let  us  go  and  see  this  tree, 

Perhaps  mistaken  you  may  be." 

Eve  said:    "No;  there  is  no  mistake. 

Do  you  suppose  that  subtle  snake 
Spoiled  such  a  chance?     Besides  I  know. 
But,  then,  what  difference;  let  us  go." 

And  so  unto  the  tree  they  went, 

And  Adam,  when  he  looked  intent, 
Said:    "Indeed,  it  must  be  so, 
You  have  brought  upon  us  mortal  woe." 

"Now,"  said  the  woman,  "Adam,  dear, 

I  do  not  wish  it  to  appear 
That  I  have  ruined  you  at  all; 
Is  there  occasion  you  to  fall? 

You  just  take  warning  from  my  doom; 

Another  wife  you  will  get  soon. 
I  must  leave  this  garden  now. 
How  can  I  leave  you !     Tell  me  how  ? 

Where  shall  I  go?    What  shall  I  find? 

Can  death  alone  relieve  my  mind? 


DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER.  95 

Oh,  how  terrible  my  fate! 

But  not  more  dreadful  than  to  wait 

And  gaze  upon  the  bleak  unknown, 

Feeling  you  are  in  the  wrong. 
Oh,  come  what  will ;  yet,  let  it  come ! 
I  sinned,  and  can  not  from  it  run, 
Nor  the  consequences  shun. 

Yes,  I  must  go  because  of  sin; 

But  how  to  go,  how  to  start  in ! 

Did  you  once  speak  of  Nephthalim? 
Did  not  I  hear  you  one  day  talk, 
When  with  a  bright  one  you  did  walk, 

Something  about  some  soulless  men? 

Oh,  Adam,  should  I  meet  with  them! 
Or  have  I  dreamed  of  such  a  thing, 
When  Reason  slept  was't  Fancy's  wing? 

Or  that  vile  snake  with  fetid  breath 

That  whispered  things  far  worse  than  death? 
Oh!  this  is  too  much  for  one. 
Adam,  see  the  snake  you  shun. 

And  as  I  leave  this  garden  now, 

You  will  forget  the  when  and  how, 
And  all  about  what  I  have  done, 
When  you  another  bride  have  won; 

When  from  the  hand  of  God  you  take 

One,  whom  I  wish  a  better  fate; 
And  as  his  works  may  still  improve, 
Love's  embrace  your  heart  may  move, 

On  prettier  form  than  yet  the  sun 

Has  seen  in  all  the  race  he's  run. 
And  should  you  think  of  me  at  all, 
I  do  not  wish  to  seem  so  small 

That  I  should  tempt  you  now  to  die. 

No,  Adam!  I  will  never  try. 


96  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER- 

I  love  you  still  with  all  my  heart; 

I  only  seem  of  you  a  part; 

I  wish  you  only  joy  and  peace 

When  my  breathing  powers  shall  cease." 

"Well,  stop  your  crying,"  Adam  said; 
"  'Tis  plain  enough  you  are  not  dead. 

Your  heart  still  beats  at  one  with  mine, 
Your  arms  may  still  round  me  entwine; 
As  far  as  improvement  is  concerned, 
What  better  thing  have  you  yet  learned?" 

Eve  sobbed,  half  choked,  as  new  fears  rose, 
"Please  do  not  ask  me,  dear;  no  one  knows — 
Something  with  wings  I  should  suppose." 

"Something  with  wings!"     Then  Adam  gasped, 
And  quickly  from  his  lips  there  passed: 

"Not  if  I  know  it. 
If  I'm  responsible  for  two, 
And  lost  my  heart,  my  sweetness,  you, 

Because  you  wandered  out  of  sight, 

And  stumbled  into  darkest  night; 

How  could  I,  fastened  to  the  ground, 
Watch  some  one  flying  all  around? 

What  kind  of  bug  or  butterfly? 

What  bird  a-soaring  in  the  sky? 
You  mean  an  angel,  I  suppose. 
A  host  of  angels,  pretty  rose, 

Would  not  suit  me  quite  so  well, 

Or  make  my  heart  within  me  swell." 

"But,  Adam,  think  how  sweet  'twill  be, 
When  a  little  bird  perched  in  a  tree, 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  97 

Singing  so  sweetly  at  close  of  day, 
As  its  carols  you  praise,  to  hear  it  say: 
'Here  am  I,  love,'  and  then  to  espy 
A  vision  of  lovelier  form  than  I." 

"Ah,"  said  Adam,  "what  did  you  say? 
What  would  happen  at  close  of  day?" 

"And  then,  dear,  to  think  when  you  see  a  rose 

With  fragrance  sweet,  and  of  color  that  grows 
Intense  as  you  look ;  should  it  blossom  out 
Into  an  angel — your  other  half,  no  doubt — 

Would  not  that  be  sweet?    Would  not  that  be  nice? 

And  such  would  happen  not  once  or  twrice, 
But  a  thousand  times  in  a  thousand  ways, 
Till  you  spent  in  ecstasy  the  days. 

And  then  just  think  what  she  would  find  out, 

And  tell  to  you,  without  a  doubt, 
When  with  other  angels  flying  around, 
She  would  hear  of  things  that  would  you  astound. 

There  are  lots  of  things  you  ought  to  know, 

And  may  be  places  you  should  go, 
That  she  could  go,  if  she  had  wings, 
And  feathers,  and  tails,  and  other  things. 

Besides,  my  dear,  you  must  understand, 

You  have  looked  at  the  beasts  from  every  land; 
You  have  seen  each  one  and  named  them  all, 
And  not  one  has  suited  you  at  all. 

And  then  here  am  I,  and  what  happened  me 

You  know,  and  I  know,  with  that  snake  up  the  tree ; 
But  there  still  are  the  angels  so  bright  and  so  pure ; 
All  that  is  left  now — you  will  love  them  sure." 

Said    Adam:     "What    foolishness!    speak  .common 

sense. 

There  are  angels,  I  know,  with  beauty  intense. 
7 


98  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

Can  I  grasp  the  wind?     Can  I  clasp  the  air? 
When  I  would  embrace,  she  would  not  be  there. 

And  what  if  she  was,  and  I  could  not  tell ; 

And  what  if  she  was  from  the  region  of  hell, 
Like  the  one  that  you  saw  ? — pretty,  no  doubt ; 
These  things  are  forever  changing  about. 

And  how  could  I  tell  if  'twas  my  own  or  not, 

When  they  can  appear  and  dissolve  on  the  spot? 
What  good  would  it  do?     Do  I  want  a  shade? 
I  want  the  real  thing,  and  no  shadow  instead. 

I  will  take  no  chances.     I  know  what  you  are; 

You  are  pretty  and  sweet,  my  daisy  and  star. 
With  all  your  faults  I  love  you  still, 
And  love  another  one  never  will. 

Talk  about  passing  out  the  gate 

And  going  to  some  horrid  fate! 
If  you  have  to  go  at  all, 
T,  too,  will  climb  the  garden  wall. 

Think  I  would  let  you  go  alone? 

I  did  that  once,  and  so  this  wrong. 
No;  if  I  have  made  a  mistake, 
The  consequences  I  must  take. 

With  you  I  die,  although  I  know 

The  sin  of  sins  is  doing  so. 
Give  me  the  fruit  now  in  your  hand, 
I'll  eat.     God  knows  where  we  will  land." 

"Adam!     Now  think  before  you  eat; 

You  never  heard  the  serpent  speak; 
No  one  is  trying  you  to  deceive, 
Nothing  your  conscience  to  relieve. 

Think  what  you  do  ere  it  is  done; 

Never  undo  can  any  one. 

No,  sweetheart,  don't!     Soon  your  God  will  come 
And  rid  you  of  your  trouble — I  am  the  one. 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  99 

Soon  God  will  be  here.     Oh,  where  shall  I  fly? 
Where,  where  is  this  death?    Oh,  how  shall  I  die?" 

"Don't  worry  so,  Eve.     Don't  spoil  your  face. 
There  will  be  something  doing  ere  that  takes  place," 

"No,  I  must  go.     Something  tells  me  I  must; 
"Tis  that  same  something,  Adam,  that  from  the  first 
Kept  me  inside  the  gate,  and  still  holds  you  here." 

"Well,  that  may  be  so;  I'm  not  sure  of  the  gate; 
That  is  not  the  question — your  desperate  fate, 
What  can  it  be?" 

"Oh,  Adam,  don't  speak;  I  hardly  can  walk; 
If  you  love  me  at  all,  don't  talk,  don't  talk. 
'Twill  soon  all  be  over — I  must  go — I  must." 

"You  must  go,  you  say ;  you  must  go  hence ; 

You  must  go  through  the  gate,  though  I  can't  see  the 

sense — 
There's  no  law  to  prevent  me  climbing  the  fence. 

But,  oh,  what  a  muss  you  have  brought  me  unto, 

And  who  from  your  looks  would  have  thought  it 

of  you? 

But  what  have  I  done?     Am  I  making  a  fuss? 
And  why  should  I  be  involved  in  this  muss? 

What  have  I  done?     Have  I  got  a  square  deal? 

Why  is  it  that  I  have  to  fret  and  to  squeal? 
When  you  were  away  talking  to  the  devil 
I  was  planting  those  bulbs  brought  by  Gabriel 

From  the  other  side — the  kind  that  you  roasted; 

You  hardly  left  seed,  so  good  they  were  toasted. 
Now  I  was  doing  the  best  I  knew  how, 
And  thought  all  was  right — look  at  me  now. 


IOO  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

To  lose  you  or  die — what  a  very  nice  choice — 
Blame  me  if  you  can  for  making  a  noise." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,  Adam;  but  I  must  go; 
I  dare  not  stay,  God  already  must  know, 

And  soon  will  be  here.    Do  not  think  I  don't  love — 

By  all  that  I  know — by  the  God  above — 
I  swear  that  I  love  you,  and  never  did  dream 
What  I  did  would  involve  you  in  any  scheme. 

Even  now  when  I  leave  you,  it  is  for  your  good; 

When  I'm  gone  you  will  be  as  at  first  you  stood — 
All  alone  and  holy.     My  fate  as  a  warning 
Will  more  than  offset  all  that  is  alarming 

To  you.     So  now  good-bye,  love ;  your  Father  is 
coming 

To  straighten  all  trouble — " 

"Did  you  say  he  was  coming?     Give  me  the  fruit! 
Give  me  the  apple!     Is  he  coming?     Quick! 
Give  me  that  apple !     I  might  lose  you  yet !" 

He  took  the  apple  from  her  hand; 

He  ate  the  fruit,  and  so  was  damned. 
That  many  a  job  to  me  has  given, 
Making  the  dead  out  of  the  living. 

For  no  power  had  I  at  all 

Ere  sin  your  bodies  did  enthrall ; 

Or,  rather,  till  sin  broke  the  charm 
That  kept  you  safe  from  every  harm. 

Thought  you  ever  of  a  power 
Might  help  you  in  an  evil  hour; 

A  power  that  would  have  helped  you  all, 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  Fall? 
But  how  this  power  to  explain 
Most  puzzles  me — it  has  no  earthly  name. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  IOI 

But  you  have  seen  how  the  electric  spark, 
Now  chained  and  fettered  by  your  human  art, 
Is  made  to  attract  or  even  to  repel 

Gross  matter. 

And  think  there  is  no  force  in  you 
Which,  were  you  with  the  Godhead  true, 
Has  power  to  repel 
Gross  matter? 

What  bullet  e'er  so  swift  that  it  could  not  deflect ; 
What  blade  so  sharp  but  it  could  detect ; 
What  mass  of  rock  so  great  that  it  could  not  arrest ; 
Oh!     What  could  harm  you,  were  you  ever  blest? 
There  is  no  evil  thing  at  all  but  sin; 
With  lack  of  love  our  troubles  all  begin ; 
And  as  the  love  returns,  would  it  me  surprise, 
As  spreads  the  inner  light,  this  force  will  meet  your 

eyes. 
Then  you  must  surely  know,  at  least  you  must 

suspect, 

How  your  Godlike  mind  mere  animals  can  check ; 
And  were  it  not  that  sin  such  cowards  of  you  make, 
You'd  meet  the  lion's  eye,  the  hissing  of  the  snake, 
And  be  at  peace.     Even  the  microbe's  power 
A  holy  mind  can  baffle  every  hour. 
But  half-way  truth  to  show 
Is  evil  but  to  sow ; 

Without  the  change  within 

You  make  us  demons  grin. 

It  makes  you  daft. 

Now,  though  this  job  that  Satan  did 
Looked  very  small,  yet  there  was  hid 

Something  in  man's  corporeal  part 

Most     rivaled  the  Creator's  art. 
What  spirit  ever  made  a  soul, 
Created  life  in  part  or  whole? 


IO2  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

But  this  thing,  half  God,  half  beast, 
Of  immortals  though  the  least, 

Makes  immortals  all  the  same, 

As  if  Jehovah  were  his  name. 

And  this  it  seemed  that  Satan  knew, 
For  at  once  to  hell  he  flew. 

Would  you  talk  of  speed  of  light, 

Had  you  seen  him  in  his  flight ; 

Far  beyond  the  bounds  of  space, 
Beyond  the  stars  whose  light  your  race 

Has  never  seen,  and  never  will, 

As  here  it  can  not  reach  until 

Your  race  has  vanished  from  the  earth, 
And  here  of  life  will  be  a  dearth; 

Then  far  beyond  attraction's  zone, 

He  strikes  for  regions  of  his  own. 
You  have  nothing  to  compare 
With  our  mode  of  travel  there. 

No;  the  locomotive's  puff, 

Compared  with  light,  has  not  enough 
Of  contrast  with  the  speed  he  went, 
And  the  speed  that  light  is  sent. 

But  the  speed  that  he  came  back, 

Compare  will  with  no  other  fact. 

The  speed  with  which  he  went  to  hell 
Your  clocks  could  measure  true  and  well, 

For  time  and  space  to  every  one, 

Not  only  all  beneath  the  sun, 

But  all  in  heaven,  or  hell,  or  space, 
Of  every  name  and  every  race, 

Are  just  the  same.     Now  Space  and  Time, 

These  two  were  never  in  a  crime  ; 
Never  obeyed  an  angel's  say ; 
Were  tampered  with  in  any  way: 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

Obeyed  the  voice  of  none  but  He 

Who  rules  through  all  eternity. 
And  never  did  I  know  before, 
Though  well  I  knew  how  they  adore; 

Never  saw  them  obey.     His  voice, 

His  word,  His  will,  their  only  choice; 
Before  that  Satan  was  brought  back 
From  hell  to  earth  —  a  fearful  fact ! 

You  see,  when  he  got  to  the  pit 

He  \vent  mouthing  round  a  bit; 

Strutting  round — the  biggest  devil 
Ever  gloried  over  evil ; 

Telling  the  feat  that  he  had  done; 

How  he  another  race  had  won 

From  truth  and  right;  all  that  is  fair, 
To  falsehood,  baseness  and  despair. 

Then  he  chuckles,  roars  and  snorts; 

Wondered  if  God  had  heard  reports; 
Wondered  how  this  ruptured  love 
Felt  to  Almighty  God  above; 

Wondered  how  he  liked  such  stuff; 

Wondered  if  he  had  enough; 

Wondered  if  Adam  now  would  die, 
And  make  another  God  would  try. 

Guessed  that  he  had  spoiled  the  plan 

Of  Godhead's  procreating  man. 
"Why,  the  little  imps,"  he  said, 
"Would  all  be  mine,  living  or  dead." 

Then  he  struck  another  strain — 

A  hellish,  gurgling,  low  refrain: 

"Demons,"  he  said,  "now  by  my  wits 
I  have  the  old  God  in  a  fix. 

You  and  I  each  chose  our  part, 

None  can  we  blame,  no  other's  art 


IO4  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

Deceived  us;  but  that  woman  fair, 
So  innocent,  I  fooled  down  there; 

I  fooled  her,  now  is  she  to  blame? 

For  my  sin  must  she  suffer  shame? 

I  tell  you,  imps,  I  have  got  Eloh" — 

But  just  about  this  very  time 

The  Lord  was  sifting  out  the  crime, 

And  Adam,  trembling  for  his  life, 

Had  laid  the  blame  upon  his  wife. 
Eve  heard  the  accusation  filed, 
And  said  the  serpent  her  beguiled. 

The  snake  was  wanted.     Where  did  he  fly? 
"His  shade  is  in  hell,"  said  the  all-seeing  Eye. 
No  time  for  seraph  warrant  serve, 
Legions  of  angels  had  the  nerve; 

But  wanted  there  at  once  was  he, 

The  prince  of  demons,  bold  and  free. 

To  Time  and  Space  the  Lord  then  spake, 
And  there  before  them  writhed  the  snake. 

No  clock  so  fine  that  time  could  take, 

Nor  flash  electric  indicate. 

That  seemed  a  race  with  time  left  out, 
A  speed  no  figures  tell  about. 

Have  ever  you  a  feeling  felt, 

Your  heart  within  you  seemed  to  melt; 
A  strange,  a  vague,  an  awful  fear, 
As  if  some  holy  one  was  near, 

But  all  unseen  ?     You  did  not  know, 

Because  your  senses  told  you  so; 

At  least  no  sense  that  e'er  was  named 
By  Adam's  sons  since  sense  inflamed. 

But  still  you  knew  it,  and  you  felt 

As  if  the  earth  and  all  should  melt. 

'Twas  thus  those  demons  all  did  feel, 
Their  essence  almost  did  congeal; 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  IO5 

And  then  vague  feeling  through  them  swept, 
The  melting  feeling  o'er  them  crept, 

Then  recovering,  buzzed  around; 

But  no  Satan  there  was  found.  l 
Then  they  peered  out  into  space — 
Too  late,  they  could  not  find  a  trace. 

But  Satan  crawling  on  the  ground 

Had  met  their  sight,  had  they  him  found. 
For  this,  God  said,  would  be  the  fate 
Forever  after  of  the  snake. 

To  Adam  and  his  wife  God  talked 

As  when  he  in  the  garden  walked; 
Gave  them  a  good  chance  to  explain ; 
Instead,  each  did  some  other  blame. 

But  he  ope'd  not  Satan's  lips, 

Gave  him  no  chance  to  use  his  wits. 
Father  of  lies!  too  well  he  knew 
The  truth  he  surely  would  eschew. 

To  him  the  veil  he  pulled  aside 

That  does  all  the  future  hide; 
Gave  him  a  hint  he  had  a  plan 
For  salvation  of  the  man ; 

Told  him  of  a  struggle  fierce 

His  haughty,  scheming  head  would  pierce; 
Said:    "Though  hell's  art  they  now  must  feel, 
You  will  only  bruise  his  heel." 

Soon  as  Omnipotence  released, 

The  wriggling,  slimy,  snake  form  ceased! 
Soon  as  Jehovah  loosed  his  rein, 
Satan  was  himself  again. 

To  concoct  his  hellish  arts 

Unceremoniously  departs. 
But  was  not  that  the  strangest  meet 
That  ever  did  the  sunbeams  greet! 


IO6  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

The  Devil,  all  the  human  race, 
And  the  Almighty  face  to  face. 

Shall  they  ever  meet  again? 

Can  you  tell  me  where  and  when? 
Should  they  meet,  then  you  and  I 
May  be  there,  as  we  can  not  fly. 

Not  as  spectators  there  that  day, 

Not  simply  just  to  view  the  play; 
I  will  have  no  scythe  to  swing, 
You  will  have  no  pen  to  sling. 

That  will  be  a  serious  hour 

To  face  the  embodiment  of  power. 
At  least  so  Satan  seems  to  think 
When  in  prophecy  he  blinks. 

But  he  blinked  not  when  released, 

When  Jehovah's  fiat  ceased. 

Straight  he  went  to  evil's  bed, 
And  there  the  riot  act  he  read. 

Anguish  on  his  face  depict, 

Despair  and  energy  conflict. 

Helpless  wrath  and  hate  confound, 
For  being  that  way  yanked  around. 

Then  he  blowed  out  from  his  mouth, 

Like  hot  malaria  from  the  south, 
Using  language  born  in  hell; 
How  long  in  use,  I  can  not  tell. 

Long,  that  word  was  meant  for  you; 

Too  short,  seen  from  my  point  of  view. 
As  near  as  I  can  recollect, 
He  used  words  to  this  effect: 

"Comrades,  who  now  idly  sit, 
Forever  brooding  in  the  pit, 

What  in  hell  have  you  found  here? 
Or  are  you  all  congealed  with  fear? 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  IO/ 

Is  this  the  way  you  serve  me  now? 
Thus  you  perform  your  solemn  vow? 

Thus  the  blood  bond  of  our  hearts 

Forever  sluggishness  imparts? 
Listen!     I  have  done  a  thing 
That  surely  will  incentive  bring; 

That  will  bring  you  work  to  do, 

With  plenty  of  reward  in  view. 
Reward!     Yes,  that  is  what  I  said, 
Though  hope  a  long  time  has  been  dead. 

No  gleam  I  feel  within  my  breast, 

The  fault  lies  in  this  frozen  chest. 
We  have  nursed  despair  so  long, 
Hope  is  a  stranger  all  unknown. 

This  barren  heart  admits  no  light 

To  cheer  its  rayless,  gloomy  night. 
But  yet  in  ages  it  may  thaw 
And  warm  again  my  craving  maw. 

For  mark  me,  boys,  by  my  wits 

Elohim  now  is  in  a  fix. 
Now  well  you  know  my  mind  is  clear, 
Though  rayless,  gloomy,  without  cheer. 

Left  he  it  thus  so  we  might  know 

The  fullness  of  our  deepest  woe? 
Or  how  it  was  I  do  not  care, 
Yet  know  I  he  is  in  a  snare. 

He's  crossed  the  Rubicon  of  wrong, 

And  must  come  tumbling  from  the  throne. 
Well,  now,  what  makes  your  eyes  bulge  out, 
Showing  suspicion  worse  than  doubt? 

Never  since  rebellion's  flag 

Separated  good  and  bad, 
And  we  weighed  our  mighty  cause 
With  the  old-established  laws; 


IO8  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

And  these  old  laws  so  weighty  found, 
They  sent  us  reeling  to  the  ground; 

Never  has  a  ray  of  hope 

Pierced  the  horizon  of  our  smoke 

Till  now! 

Till  now;  yes,  that  is  what  I  said; 
Or  surely  these  old  laws  are  dead. 

For  the  old  God  who  rules  the  throne 

Expressed  his  sympathy  with  wrong. 
Now,  well  I  know  you  recollect 
How  carefully  he  heaven  swept 

Of  every  trace  of  those  who  made 

A  strike  for  freedom,  or  essayed, 
Even  in  the  slightest,  to  conceal, 
Or  even  not  the  truth  reveal; 

He  swept  till  not  the  slightest  trace 

Was  found  in  any  heart  or  place. 

But  now,  to  save  these  Godlike  beasts, 
His  pets,  the  broken  law  he  cheats — 

The  broken  law  with  which  he  bound  them 

To  himself  and  all  around  him. 

Yes;  they  have  smashed  that  law,  and  now 
He  has  made  some  kind  of  vow 

To  patch  it  up ;  but  mark  my  word, 

The  very  idea  is  absurd. 

Not  only  so;  the  fact  he  tries 
Makes  me  believe  without  surmise 

That  chaos  soon  will  come  again, 

And  tumbling,  rumbling  ruin  reign. 

Then,  mark  me,  demons,  in  that  day, 
When  the  old  throne  of  God  gives  way, 

I  will  ride  that  thing  through  space — 

A  reckless,  riot-ruling  race. 

That  was  my  promise  from  the  first, 
And  I  will  do  it  sure  or  burst. 


DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER.  IOQ 

Oh,  you  unbelieving  crowd, 
Why  do  you  not  applaud  aloud? 

Frozen  with  ages  of  despair, 

Gleams  no  ray  of  hope  in  there, 
Where  the  sunlight  used  to  dwell  ? 
But  why  should  I  speak  thus  in  hell! 

Hope  thou,  mirage  of  the  heart; 

Damning  insult,  quick  depart ! 
We  need  new  words  if  we  would  trace 
Primeval  chaos  and  embrace — 

A  language  nerved  with  wildest  fire, 

Sullen  wrath,  and  fiercest  ire; 
A  language  suited  to  the  time 
When  wreck  and  ruin  are  not  crime, 

But  the  proper  thing  to  do. 

Does  not  the  Lord  lead  on  a  crew 
To  build  for  love  a  lasting  tomb, 
And  hope  shut  up  in  deepest  gloom, 

And  back  to  chaos,  back  to  night, 

Urge  every  heart  and  every  light? 
Yes,  the  old  God,  who  used  to  rule, 
Unto  himself  has  proved  a  fool ; 

Unto  himself  has  proved  untrue — 

Why  not  he  as  well  as  you? 
He  will  sympathize  with  wrong, 
For  to  save  it  he  will  groan ; 

And  groans  creation  to  its  root, 

While  every  imp  in  hell  may  hoot. 
Save  it!     Yes,  and  save  his  throne? 
No!     Chaos  comes  a-rumbling  on; 

All  are  partners  now  in  sin; 

Destruction  really  must  begin; 
Justice  is  tainted  with  decay; 
All  are  palsied  with  dismay; 


IIO  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

Omnipotence  is  paralyzed, 
And  everything  to  ruin  hies. 

"Now,  imps,  all  look  me  in  the  face; 
You  are  a  disbelieving  race; 

You  look  at  me  as  if  you  thought 

To  murder  truth  I  had  been  bought. 
No !  truth  is  dead  and  murdered  now ; 
I  will  tell  you  when  and  how. 

It  all  was  done  by  juggling  words ; 

They  are  fitful  things,  these  little  birds; 
They  are  handy  tools  in  a  brain  like  mine, 
For  breaking  hearts  and  show'ring  brine. 

You  know  the  woman  I  deceived — 

The  stuff  I  told  her  she  believed, 
And  what  God  told  her  not  to  do, 
She  has  gone  and  done  that,  too. 

Not  only  so — that  is  not  all — 

Just  the  commencement  of  the  ball — 
That  old  stiff  she  calls  her  lord 
(He,  by  the  way,  calls  her  'adored'), 

Rather  than  risk  another  rib — 

That  looks  something  like  a  fib — 
He  has  gone  and  followed  suit, 
He  has  eaten  of  the  fruit — 
Now,  you  imps,  why  don't  you  toot  ? 

Remember  he  was  not  deceived ; 

The  law,  he  knew  it,  and  believed. 
Now,  was  not  that  a  damning  sin? 
Should  not  punishment  begin  ? 

Should  not  despair  and  grim  dismay 

Clutch  him  from  the  present  day? 
But  I  am  glad  it  does  not  do  it, 
Though  I  can  not  quite  see  through  it. 

Listen,  imps!  that  is  not  all — 

It  as  a  part  is  very  small. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  Ill 

It  very  unimportant  is, 

Compared  with  this  last  slip  of  His, 

Who  claims  eternity  to  rule, 

But  now  has  acted  like  a  fool. 
Sometimes  you  know  a  trifling  thing 
Will  the  greatest  result  bring. 

Sometimes  when  you  have  done  your  best, 

Plotted  and  planned  with  zeal  and  zest, 
And  been  fooled,  a  trifling  thing 
Will  the  wished-for  result  bring. 

So  it  is  now ;  I  only  tried 

To  blast  the  love  for  which  God  sighed ; 
I  only  wished  to  mar  the  plan 
He  seemed  to  have  in  making  man. 

But  the  result  is,  strange  to  say, 

Of  more  import  in  every  way 
Than  ever  I  had  dared  to  dream, 
Since  we  in  this  abyss  were  seen. 

The  result  will  yet  fulfill 

All  we  ever  dreamed  of  ill; 
All  ever  promised  you  by  sin  ; 
All  we  ever  tried  to  win ; 

All  will  be  ours,  or  from  the  throne 

Justice  is  benumb'd  and  gone. 
Either — though  which  I  can  not  tell, 
I've  been  so  long  immured  in  hell — 

Either  his  love  unto  that  pair 

Has  turned  his  head,  and  formed  a  snare, 
Or  else,  perhaps,  that  little  mix 
Which  got  the  woman  in  a  fix — 

Deception — for  I  fooled  her  sure — 

Suggests  that  he  should  find  a  cure. 
Whichever  way,  it  matters  not, 
He  has  not  damned  them,  as  he  ought ; 


112  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

Not  final  was  the  judgment  given, 
As  when  we  were  swept  from  heaven. 

He  has  weakened  with  the  rod, 

And  Justice  kneels  no  more  to  God; 
No  longer  from  the  central  throne 
Streams  the  light  of  Reason  on. 

The  scales  of  Justice  slightly  tip 

Where  the  last  court  of  appeals  doth  sit. 
A  hazy  mist  now  meets  the  eye, 
Where  once  the  ruler  of  the  sky 

Beamed  with  luster  bright,  divine; 

Now  it  shines  like  yours  and  mine, 
Black,  like  diamonds  from  the  pit, 
For  the  smoking  furnace  fit; 

And  hell  keeps  a-creeping  on, 

Embracing  all  things  within  its  zone. 

All  now  it  takes  to  make  things  mine 
Is  that  wondrous  factor,  Time. 

For  the  poison  of  the  snake 

Beats  in  the  heart  blood  uncreate, 
And  will  surely  from  that  source 
Permeate  each  vital  force. 

What  we  could  not  gain  by  strife, 

When  we  fought  as  if  for  life, 
Now  is  ours ;  a  subtle  turn 
Where  hatred  ne'er  forgets  to  burn  — 

This  brain  of  mine  has  victory  won ; 

Wreck  and  ruin  have  begun. 

And  as  the  vanquished  must  come  down, 
And  to  the  victor  yield  the  crown, 

I  will  be  the  great  I  Am — 

Let  him  fill  any  place  he  can. 

Long  we  have  been  the  under  dog, 
Been  kicked  and  fettered  like  a  rogue. 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  1 13 

Cheer  up,  now  we  are  on  top; 
Cheer  up,  and  catch  a  ray  of  hope. 

Damn  the  hope!  it  will  not  burn; 

Our  hearts  to  joy  it  will  not  turn. 
'Tis  past  the  power  of  victory's  art 
To  thaw  the  icebergs  in  my  heart. 

But  there  is  one  thing  we  can  do: 

To  hate  and  hell  we  can  prove  true. 
Its  gorge  with  all  things  we  will  cram, 
And  o'er  the  throne  of  God  write  'damn.' 

And  though  we  rule  not  as  we  thought, 

When  first  we  for  the  victory  fought; 
Though  not  with  energy  and  might 
We  sit  upon  the  throne  of  light, 

And  create  things  for  fun  and  sport, 

Which  I  supposed  would  be  my  forte; 
Still,  we  may  rule  when  hell  and  hate 
In  Time's  cycle,  fixed  by  fate, 

Are  on  top — and  now  it  seems 

The  morning  of  this  period  gleams. 
Where  will  Justice  hide  her  head 
When  her  God  to  right  is  dead? 

Pleads  now  Justice  for  her  sword, 

From  her  sin-protecting  Lord. 
Paralyzed  is  Justice's  rod 
By  a  sinner-loving  God! 

Paralyze  it! — yes,  he  may, 

But  the  price  will  have  to  pay — 
He  must  pay — the  deed  is  done; 
A  fearful  victory  hell  hath  won. 

Have  not  I  told  you  more  than  twice, 

Every  one  has  got  his  price? 
The  price  he  puts  on  mawkish  love 
Is  everything  in  heaven  above, 


114  DEATH   AND   THE  REPORTER. 

And  everything  in  space  below. 

He  piles  them  up  and  lets  them  go; 
He  lets  them  go,  and  go  they  must; 
Eternal  thrones  and  starry  dust, 

All,  all  must  go;  down  he  must  come, 

And  like  the  rest  of  us  become. 
Well,  now,  you  need  not  look  afraid; 
His  coming  must  have  been  delayed; 

But  sure — what  will  I  swear  by  now? 

There  is  no  way  to  clinch  a  vow. 
Each  stable  thing  is  out  of  place, 
The  throne  of  God  is  off  its  base. 

That's  so.     I  am  the  great  I  AM  myself; 

The  greatest,  I  swear  by  myself. 
So,  now,  by  Satan  hear  me  swear; 
So,  now,  by  Satan  I  declare 

The  end  of  all  things  good  has  come; 

Truth,  love  and  purity  have  run 
The  time  appointed  them  by  fate, 
And  now  preeminent  is  hate. 

Now  hate  and  lying,  hellish  notes, 

Chime  with  heaven's  brightest  hopes; 
Where  once  was  heaven  sound  they  well, 
And  every  where' s  engulfed  by  hell. 

For  where  sin  is,  'tis  hell,  we  know, 

In  heaven's  heights,  or  down  below. 

"Now,  you  lazy,  loafing  tribe, 
Open  all  your  mouths  full  wide; 

And  everything  in  heaven  will  drop — 

Into  your  gaping  jaws  will  flop. 
Is  it  thus  that  vict'ry's  won? 
Think  you  fighting  will  be  fun, 
When  I  the  deed  for  you  have  done? 

Listen,  you  shiftless,  shuffling  crew; 

Listless,  never  dare  to  do; 


DEATH    AND  THE)   REPORTER. 

Are  you  companions  fit  for  me? 
Are  these  comrades  that  I  see? 

Where  are  the  spirits  who  once  did  dare 

To  fight  with  Omnipotence  up  there? 
What  if  we  fought  and  lost  the  day, 
Did  we  ever  have  fair  play? 

He  was  right,  and  we  were  wrong; 

But  mark  me  how  has  changed  the  song; 
Here  we  meet  on  equal  ground, 
All  are  in  the  same  boat  found; 

O'er  all  the  flag  of  Wrong's  unfurled, 

And  Justice  can  not  be  now  hurled 

'Gainst  either  side, 

For  right  is  right  and  wrong  is  wrong. 
Not  even  can  Jehovah's  throne 

Make  right  of  wrong  or  wrong  of  right — 

That  is  far  beyond  his  might. 
Beyond  his  famed  omnipotence. 

And  mark  me  well — mark  what  I  say — 

This  is  an  epoch-making  day. 
Observe  and  think — all  of  us  know 

Things  are  not  as  they  used  to  be 
A  million  years  ago. 

His  famed  omniscience  at  the  last 

Has  had  to  juggle  with  the  past; 
To  straighten  out  what  he  has  done, 
Efface  the  spots  from  off  the  sun. 

Preserved  before  by  pure,  unsullied  light, 

That  throne  must  now  be  held  by  might. 
It  must.     Who  is  responsible  for  that? 
It  will  not     A  bashful  devil  states  a  fact. 

And  mark  me  now,  for  the  truth  I  tell, 

Would  it  not  suit  Jehovah  well 
Earth's  ball  to  amputate 
From  the  universe  create? 


Il6  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

He  can  create — He  does  create. 
Does  He — can  He  annihilate? 

"Now,  though  I  really  do  suppose 
I  alone  can  whip  our  foes, 
Still,  as  you  fought  with  me  before, 
And  listened  to  the  battle's  roar, 
If  you  wish  to  try  again, 
Where  cause  of  victory  is  plain, 
We  will  now  the  ground  survey 
And  marshal  forces  for  the  fray. 

You  know  a  gap  in  heaven  was  felt 
Where  we  for  eons  long  had  knelt. 
When  we  left,  to  fill  it  up, 
I  looked  for  something  quite  abrupt. 
By  fiat  of  his  mighty  will 
I  thought  he  would  our  places  fill. 
But  when  we  ever  think  a  thing, 
Some  other  way  he  will  it  bring; 
Some  other  way  will  surely  do 
Than  has  been  surmised  by  you. 
And  so  it  seems  he  has  create 
Matter  in  galore  of  late; 

Gathered  its  mass  in  balls  of  fire, 
Which  on  cooling  do  aspire 
To  be  the  homes  of  creatures  strange, 
Procreating  in  their  range; 

Matter  strangely  mixed  with  life; 
Unholy  union,  fraught  with  strife. 
And  then  on  us  an  insult  deep 
Enough  to  make  creation  weep; 
Insult  on  injury  he  heaps — 
The  under  dog  before  him  creeps. 
He  takes  this  brutal,  brutish  swine, 
And  breathes  on  him  our  breath  divine. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  117 

This  we  know  can  ne'er  cease  exist; 

To  guess  the  rest  is  not  a  risk. 
To  fill  our  places  with  such  stuff 
Will  almost  make  one  say  'Enough.' 

He  hardly  deigns  create  at  all, 

And  tries  to  make  us  feel  so  small. 
When  they  cover  all  earth's  face, 
He'll  send  them  to  some  other  place; 

No  need  to  guess  where  that  will  be, 

When  heaven's  third  is  where  you  see. 
That,  by  my  word,  was  Heaven's  plan 
They  had  in  thus  creating  man. 

But  oh!  I  got  my  foot  in  it; 

But  oh !  I  got  my  snout  in  it. 
Not  in  their  council  did  they  take 
The  great  I  Am,  this  reprobate; 

Although  advice  I  oft  have  given 

When  I  was  with  them  up  in  heaven. 
Better,  when  there  is  work  to  do, 
Consult  with  many  than  with  few. 

Of  course,  when  all  are  of  one  mind, 

When  all  are  of  the  selfsame  kind, 
It  matters  not;  for  what  one  says, 
The  others  only  seek  to  praise. 

But  when  opposing  minds  can  meet 

In  council,  they  are  more  discreet, 
And  the  result  of  give  and  take 
Is  something  of  more  stable  make. 

But,  then,  I  am  well  satisfied, 

And  the  result  have  ratified, 
And  ever  after  from  this  time 
Will  take  the  final  touch  as  mine. 

Seeing  they  are  so  considerate, 

Advice  like  mine  to  underrate, 


Il8  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

I  will  consider  well  their  plans, 

And  touch  them  up  with  willing  hands. 

With  willing  hands  and  subtle  mind, 

We  are  a  match  for  all  their  kind. 
I  am  the  match  for  all  in  heaven, 
Now  the  fatal  blow  is  given. 

That  blow  itself  you  did  not  see; 

That  alone  appears  to  me. 
And  really — well,  you  ought  to  know — 
But  leak  it  must  not  to  our  foe — 

Yet  it  is  necessary  now; 

So  knit  the  brains  beneath  your  brow, 
And  stand  with  me  where  I  have  been, 
And  grasp  with  me  what  I  have  seen. 

I'll  tell  what  knit  your  fate  to  mine 

Eons  before  the  mist  did  shine. 

"Then  listen!     Eons  ere  I  broached, 
Eons  ere  ever  I  approached 
A  kindred  spirit  to  inspire 
With  freedom's  wildest  dream  of  fire, 
I  thought  it  often  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  looked  at  it  behind,  before; 
I  studied  oft  and  studied  well, 
But  no  conclusion  could  I  tell. 
To  tell  of  that  we  had  to  try, 
And  will  we  o'er  the  result  cry? 

Yes,  oft  I  thought  what  would  become 
Of  all  his  glory  and  his  Son, 
Should  any  dare  the  halo  break, 
And  unto  fierce  law-breaking  take. 
Should  any  exalt  liberty 
Above  her  God.     What  slavery 
Thus  to  be  bound     forced  to  respect 
All  others'  rights!     Could  we  except 


DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER.  II 

And  be  free?     Free  from  all  love! 

How  would  he  feel  when  we  above 

All  laws  should  rise? 
Yes,  oft  I  wondered,  oft  I  thought, 
Oft  surmised,  and  oft  it  dropped; 

Thought  this  would  happen,  then  did  doubt; 

Then  turned  the  problem  inside  out. 
But  one  thing  never  could  I  tell, 
Study  e'er  so  long  and  well : 

Tell  how  it  would  affect  the  whole, 

Should  part  refuse  his  loved  control. 
Part  of  the  whole  is  still  a  part, 
As  fixed  by  the  Creator's  art. 

Like  those  machines  we  have  in  hell, 

Which  sometimes  work,  sometimes  rebel, 
When  one  of  them  receives  a  jar, 
And  something  breaks ;  does  that  not  mar 

The  whole  machine,  and  make  it  stop — 

The  whole  as  well  as  that  which  broke? 
Or  let  some  masterpiece  of  art 
Receive  a  flaw  in  some  small  part, 

It  must  deteriorate  the  whole, 

As  if  the  vision  had  a  soul. 
Why  not,  then,  the  great,  vast  plan 
Which  eons  upon  eons  ran — 

The  plan  embracing  God  with  all 

The  rest  of  us,  both  great  and  small; 
Making  the  whole  and  every  part 
One  vast  masterpiece  of  art? 

I  spoiled  it,  and  you  followed  suit; 

Witness  now  the  Godhead  root. 
Down  he  comes;  'twas  fixed  by  fate. 
Sin  affects  the  whole,  and  hate, 

How  it  burns,  where  love  has  dwelt, 

And  where  myriad  angels  knelt. 


120  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

It  will  be  ever  burning  there, 
Till  all  are  helpless  in  despair. 

It  has  burned  since  first  we  fought; 

God  hated  sin  in  my  first  thought; 
But  'tis  hatred  all  the  same; 
Hatred,  and  who  is  now  to  blame? 

Now  no  more  in  perfect  love 

Dwells  the  Almighty  God  above. 

"But  now  suppose  that  I  could  take 
Something  that  he  has  create; 

Some  atom  of  material  stuff, 

Of  which  he  surely  has  enough, 
And  simply  it  annihilate; 
Not  only  change  its  form  or  shape, 

But  really  make  it  cease  exist, 

So  that  forever  'twould  be  missed; 
Could  I  really  this  thing  do? 
Is  there  a  thick  head  among  you 

Who  could  not  easily  figure  out 

The  certainty  that  I  could  rout 

The  force  on  high? 
Did  not  I  do  more  than  this 
When  I  changed  this  love  of  his? 

Did  I  not  create  this  hate. 

Or  was  it  all-pervading  Fate 
That  made  the  change? 
Now  listen,  all  ye  mutton  heads, 
Move  softly  where  your  limit  treads; 

It  is  not  all  things  that  you  may  know; 

Try  swallowing  all,  you  must  o'erflow; 
Nor  is  it  requisite  you  should; 
It  might  not  be  for  your  own  good; 

Yours  is  but  to  do  or  die; 

The  fountain  head  of  thought  am  I. 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  121 

You  do  just  as  you  are  told; 
I'll  do  the  thinking  as  of  old. 

Have  not  I  told  you  oft  before, 

Even  when  we  did  adore : 
God  is  not  everything  he  claims? 
Does  he  embrace  all  that  he  names? 
Whence,  then,  this  hate? 

Something  is  higher  than  the  chains 

Of  love,  which  bind  where'er  he  reigns; 

I  call  it  Fate. 

And  now  the  cycle  wheels  are  turning, 
Now  all-powerful  hate  is  burning, 

Now  a  change  is  coming  o'er 

The  Godhead  which  we  did  adore. 
Long  seem  they  to  have  been  on  top, 
And  claimed  to  have  unsullied  thought. 

But  mark  me  well,  and  note  it  down, 

When  'tis  proclaimed,  I'll  take  the  crown. 
A  great  tribunal  I  will  make, 
And  call  upon  the  witness  Fate ; 
And  I  will  have  him  plainly  state 

What  was  before  this  great  usurper; 

And  who  it  was,  the  trio  nurture, 
And  what  the  trio  did  to  them, 
That  no  trace  of  where  or  when, 

No  monument  their  name  to  state — > 

Existence  seems  obliterate. 
Only  by  inference  we  know 
That  it  never  could  be  so. 

And  by  inference  I  state 

When  the  cycles  moved  by  Fate, 
To  a  certain  stage  of  time 
When  the  imperial  crown  is  mine. 

You,  my  comrades,  then  can  tell 

Who  preceded  us  and  fell. 


122  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

I  will  leave  you  all  in  state, 

And  never  will  obliterate. 

To  hasten  on  this  glorious  time 
By  sullen  wrath  and  fearful  crime, 

Now  'tis  yours  and  mine  to  play; 

Now  sounds  the  trumpet  for  the  fray. 
The  challenge  from  Jehovah  given, 
To  meet  him  in  that  midway  heaven, 
The  earth. 

O  earth!  earth!  what  shalt  thou  know, 

Where  the  fiercest  fight  the  foe? 
For  the  challenge  we  take  up, 
And  thou,  O  man!  must  drink  a  cup 

Of  damning  misery  and  woe; 

Demons  all  say  that  is  so. 

"Now  I  call  for  volunteers — 
Willing  service  always  cheers. 

Now,  please  do  not  all  speak  at  once, 

And  overwhelm  me  for  the  nonce. 
First  we  will  have  a  committee 
Who  in  figures  good  shall  be; 

And  they  shall  figure  out  how  long 

The  earth  is  fit  to  live  upon. 

Then  some  biologist  shall  make 
Another  kind  of  estimate: 

Suppose  the  brute  God  and  his  mate 

Should  breed  like  any  other  ape, 

And  die,  like  others  of  his  kind, 

How  many  of  them,  think  you,  you'll  find 

Could  live  upon  that  whirling  ball 

Till  frozen  were  the  life  of  all? 

Now  they  need  not  figure  close; 
'Tis  hard  to  estimate  the  loss; 

The  millions  who  shall  die  and  suffer 

From  the  hate  their  hearts  shall  cover; 


DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER.  123 

Billions  who  will  not  breed  at  all, 

From  shock  occasioned  by  the  Fall ; 
The  trillions  who  shall  die  too  soon, 
Leaving  for  others  lots  of  room; 

For  all  must  be  impregned  by  hell — 

Fiends  incarnate  there  must  dwell. 
That's  why  I  want  those  figures  now, 
To  tell  how  many  imps  must  bow 

Their  lofty  natures,  squeeze  so  small 

To  be  a  microbe  on  a  ball. 
A  microbe  in  a  microbe's  heart, 
Fiendlike  impulse  to  impart; 

There  you  can  pull,  where  pull  you  can, 

A  fearful  pull  within  the  man. 
For  a  struggle  you  will  find, 
Perhaps  a  struggle  with  your  kind; 

Not  flesh  and  blood  alone  you  fight — 

Would  that  call  forth  all  your  might? 
But  what  I  gathered  from  his  song, 
When  God  first  sympathized  with  wrong, 

The  microbe  campaign  will  embrace 

Not  only  all  the  human  race, 
But  I  should  judge  the  fate  of  all 
Hangs  on  the  struggle  on  that  ball. 

I  also  think,  from  what  he  said, 

When  to  that  interview  I  stayed, 
Some  way  or  other  yet,  the  race 
May  have  some  choice  of  the  place 

Where  they  for  evermore  may  dwell — 

Up  in  heaven  or  here  in  hell. 

"So  now  brace  up  for  the  war; 
For  the  combat  on  that  star; 

How  many  imps  unto  a  man — 
Let  us  decide  quick  as  we  can — 


124  DEATH  AND  THE  REPORTER. 

How  many?     Make  it  sure  and  strong; 

Err  on  the  safe  side,  guard  the  wrong. 
You  should  not  lose  a  single  soul 
After  I  have  wrecked  the  whole. 

But  should  you  lose  a  single  spirit — 

Where  in  hell  his  guard  will  bear  it — 
Bear  my  wrath  with  torture  given — 
This  hell  will  be  a  very  heaven 

Compared  with  what  the  sufferings  are 

Of  cowards  whipped  upon  that  star. 
So  when  you  cheerfully  enroll 
Your  names  within  this  smoky  scroll; 

When  the  decisive  step  you  take, 

And  get  another  chance  to  rate 

Your  noble  selves,  dream  not  of  ease 
Or  any  craving  to  appease, 

Or  anything  in  part  or  whole; 

But  simply  plan  to  damn  that  soul. 

And  what  you  do,  see  it  done  well, 
And  bring  the  microbes  into  hell. 

Do  not  forget  with  whom  you  fight ; 

Do  everything  with  all  your  might. 

And  should  the  struggle  doubtful  seem, 
Do  not  forget,  I  am  supreme. 

Think  how  I  spoiled  the  image  fair 

That  God  himself  had  written  there. 

Think  how  I  found  them  bright  as  light, 
And  left  them  in  the  darkest  night. 

I  will  come  at  every  cry. 

But  damn  the  imp  who  e'er  says  die; 
He  will  find  the  hottest  hell — 
Another  shaft  within  this  well 
For  such  as  he. 

So  now  think  before  you  act, 

No  day  dream  this — a  fearful  fact. 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  125 

Only  those  should  join  the  crew 

Who  are  brave  to  dare  and  do. 
Only  volunteers  should  sign, 
Who  nerve  and  will  and  grit  combine. 

Only  those  should  e'er  begin, 

Who  are  bound  the  prize  to  win; 
For  never  must  the  day  be  lost; 
Now  is  the  time  to  count  the  cost. 

As  you  will  have  to  go  in  squads, 

Sixes  and  sevens,  for  the  jades; 
And  many  more  than  that  sometimes, 
For  those  who  go  in  higher  crimes ; 

Choose  your  comrades — choose  them  well, 

From  those  who  are  your  chums  in  hell. 
Rather  than  from  those  in  heaven 
Who  joined  with  us  in  thanksgiving. 

Affinities  that  grew  in  hell 

Will  suit  our  purpose  just  as  well. 
Now  count  the  cost  and  count  it  sure; 
Who  can  the  penalty  endure 

Of  those  who  try  and  fail? 
None  shall  alleviate  or  cure 

The  sting  that  makes  them  wail." 

Was  not  there  silence  in  the  pit 

When  Satan  thought  'twas  time  to  quit? 

A  fearful  silence  reigned  in  hell, 

Silence  the  stoutest  heart  did  quell. 
The  stillness  almost  seemed  to  freeze; 
Spellbound,  with  no  one  to  release, 

None  moved  or  spoke  a  word, 

Until  the  silence  seemed  absurd. 
Then  some  one  roared  'twas  getting  hot, 
And  every  one  looked  toward  the  spot. 

Some  one  who  ne'er  before  had  spoke, 

Mounted  an  adjacent  rock; 


126  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Oh,  how  he  ripped  and  tore; 
He  never  spoke  before, 

Nor  since.     As  when  the  donkey  Balaam  rode 

Had  his  mouth  opened  by  his  God, 
Beelzebub  rose  from  the  gloom 
And  settled  his  case  none  too  soon, 

And  told  him  sharp  to  quit, 

And  told  him  down  to  sit. 

He  did. 

Beel  thought  we  had  enough  of  talk ; 
Thought  now  it  was  high  time  to  act. 
We  did. 

Then  such  a  buzz  there  was  in  hell, 

Such  racket  ne'er  before  befell 

Mine  ears  to  hear. 

They  formed  in  squads  of  every  size, 
Vowed  they  were  sure  to  win  a  prize, 
Yelled  till  the  echoes  reached  the  skies, 
But  not  a  cheer ! 

Yes,  you  should  have  seen  that  crowd. 

Such  pandemonium  was  allowed, 
It  raised  from  out  the  depths  of  hell 
Some  who  scarce  had  moved  since  first  they  fell; 

Disheartened  laziness  their  strength. 

Many  a  man  they've  stretched  at  length, 
Curse  to  himself  and  all  around, 
His  slothful  habits  so  confound; 

He  might  as  well  be  dead 

And  lying  in  his  bed. 
The  active  spirits  fairly  danced; 
Grim  flushed  the  faces  lately  blanched; 

They  thought  their  time  had  come  at  last — 

The  fearful  ennui  was  past. 
Now  there  was  something  they  could  do, 
With  plenty  of  reward  in  view ; 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  127 

Not  as  they  long  had  done 

In  many  a  blazing  sun; 
With  quivering  molecules  had  fought, 
In  nature's  realm  destruction  wrought; 

In  vegetable  life  had  sown 

The  seeds  of  death — a  fearful  wrong; 
In  animals  had  practiced  sure 
The  swinging  scythe — a  perfect  cure. 

Though  still  the  plan  of  God  seemed  working, 

When  we  in  angel  plans  were  lurking, 
Still  the  good  seemed  surely  gaining, 
Though  we  our  every  nerve  were  straining. 

Uneasy  feeling  through  us  crept 

That  we  withal  were  being  swept 

Along  in  some  vast  plan ; 
But  now  that  Satan's  hands  were  dipped 
In  nobler  game — that  he  had  whipped 

That  God-beast,  man, 
We  thought — or  did  surmise  at  least, 
Or  tried  to  think — not  only  beast, 

But  even  of  the  angel  band, 

Were  wreckd  on  sin's  deceitful  strand; 
And  somehow  Godhead  was  to  blame 
For  furnishing  such  easy  game; 

Allowing  damnation  on  two  souls, 

Lasting  as  creation  rolls. 
Then  it  seemed  victory  over  he 
Who  claims  omnipotent  to  be. 

We  angel  works  had  spoiled  enough — 

Were  nearly  tired  of  such  light  stuff; 
And  even  Godhead  seemed  to  own  it, 
If  Satan's  word  had  truth  upon  it. 

There  might  at  least  be  something  in  it, 

And  we  would  try  our  best  to  win  it. 


128  DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER. 

That  is,  if  Satan's  words  were  true, 
And  surely  there  was  something  new. 
And  probably,  'twas  as  he  said, 
The  fairest  work  that  angels  made; 
What  took  them  ages  to  evolve, 
So  good,  the  Godhead  did  resolve 

To  give  them  breath  such  as  we  breathe, 
Around  them  such  a  web  to  weave, 
To  hurt — 'twas  far  beyond  the  skill 
Of  this  old  scythe  to  do  them  ill. 
And  with  the  power  to  procreate 
Themselves  at  an  increasing  rate, 
Where  would  the  matter  end? 
What  did  he  intend? 

But  oh,  the  change  that  now  had  come! 

So  short  the  race  that  they  had  run 
Of  love,  of  purity,  of  peace, 
Their  safety  with  their  sin  did  cease. 

Now  this  old  scythe  was  good  again 

Upon  the  fleshly  parts  of  men. 
But  what  about  the  breath  of  life, 
Which  can  not  die  in  any  strife? 

Would  that  forever  dwell  with  us 

In  this  dying,  living  muss? 
And  would  God  let  them  propagate, 
Or  with  the  pair  seal  every  fate? 

Ihen  we  had  victory  o'er  him  won, 

And  spoiled  the  work  he  had  begun. 
No,  we  were  sure  they  would  go  on, 
And  spirits  make  to  laugh  or  groan. 

Their  choice  as  they  had  at  first, 

Their  choice  to  be  loved  or  curst, 
Each  one  might  have,  we  thought; 
But,  then,  'twas  dearly  bought. 


DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER.  1 29 

If  we  with  angels  of  our  kind 

Should  fight  within  the  human  mind, 
They  tied  up  to  one  narrow  way, 
We  with  all  else  to  have  full  play, 

Could  surely  make  it  win. 

We  wanted  to  begin; 
We  were  spoiling  for  the  fight, 
And  signed  the  roll  as  men  of  might. 

We  signed  it  with  a  will, 

We  every  page  did  fill. 
Why,  there  were  demons  came  and  signed 
Whose  memory  had  escaped  my  mind. 

From  cracks  and  crevices  they  came, 

From  mist,  and  places  hard  to  name, 

Crawled  from  the  pit,  some  dropped  like  rain. 
Such  a  looking  crowd 
Should  not  have  been  allowed — 

Hideous,  frightful,  crushed  by  pain, 

Was  the  Almighty  not  to  blame 
For  having  them  endowed 
With  that  of  which  freemen  are  proud : 

The  choice  to  do  right  or  wrong, 

The  choice  theirs  to  laugh  or  groan? 
The  Breath  of  Life!     A  fearful  thing 
That  joys  inspire  or  tortures  wring. 

O  Life!     O  Breath  of  Life! 

Will  never  cease  this  strife? 
Can  not  we  die !     Tell  me  why  ? 
Mortally  wounded,  and  we  try. 
Mortally  wounded,  still  we  cry. 

There  is  no  death  for  Death; 
No  Breath  of  Life  can  die; 

No  torture  stills  its  breath, 
However  hard  we  try. 


I3O  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Existence  still  rolls  on; 

It  lives  in  every  zone; 

Time  only  makes  it  moan; 
Ne'er  can  it  cease  exist 
Or  vanish  into  mist. 

O  Breath  of  Life!     O  mystery! 

Who  shall  write  thy  history? 
Do  you  think  no  record's  kept? 
Do  you  think  you  ever  slept? 

And  when  sleeping  dreamed  a  dream 

The  imagery,  though  faintly  seen, 
Was  not  so  faint,  but  they  did  keep 
A  record  of  that  dreamy  sleep. 

Is  there  mystery  up  there 

Where  they  even  number  hair? 
Who  is  this  with  whom  we  fight? 
Who  exhausts  our  strength  and  might? 

Who  overrules  the  work  we  do? 

Who  ever  makes  us  but  the  crew 
Who  demonstrate  of  truth  one  phase  — 
Rebellion's  miserable  lays? 

Surely  this  must  have  Satan  galled, 
When  he  your  race  with  sin  enthralled. 

When  he  mounted  on  his  throne 

And  spoke  the  words  I  now  intone. 
When  the  hubbub  was  subdued, 
Words  of  wisdom  forth  he  spewed. 

When  we  order  could  maintain, 

Satan  was  wound  up  again. 

"Powers  of  darkness!     Powers  of  night! 

Powers  who  equal  those  we  fight! 
What  more  need  I  now  say  than  this? 
More  would  surely  be  amiss. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

Yet  I  will  say  more  than  that, 

And  well  you  know  it  is  a  fact. 
Powers  whose  equal  there  are  none ! 
Aspiring  powers  who  grasp  the  throne, 

The  throne  before  which  we  have  knelt, 

Whose  power  and  presence  we  have  felt 
Whose  power  and  presence  we  shall  feel. 
Though  nevermore  before  it  kneel. 

Kneel !  no,  never !     How  times  change ! 

Eternity,  how  vast  thy  range ! 
Range,  how  vast !     Yet  who  did  think 
We  were  now  upon  the  brink 

Of  such  a  change,  a  change  like  this — 

That  Fate  the  under  dog  should  kiss? 
Kissed  the  dog  that  looked  so  dead — 
The  victor's  crown  is  on  his  head. 

Head  that  did  it.     Did  it.     What? 

Forged  the  snare  that  now  has  caught 
The  throne  of  God;  now  it  is  ours, 
Yours  and  mine,  victorious  powers. 

"But  I  have  asked  you  who  did  think 
We  were  now  upon  the  brink. 

Well,  if  you  thought  I  was  asleep, 

When  I  was  but  thinking  deep, 

I  was  but  musing  o'er  the  dream 
Which  I  have  dreamt  so  oft  unseen. 

Even  in  the  blaze  of  heaven's  light 

I  studied  it  with  all  my  might. 

I  studied  it — but  tell  who  may, 
Words  fail  ideas  to  convey; 

Ideas  gauzy,  mazy,  thin, 

To  tell  them  where  shall  I  begin? 
What  if  He  evil  should  permit, 
Would  it  on  Him  rebound  and  hit? 


132  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

If  ever  He  allowed  us  sin, 
Would  not  the  end  of  right  begin? 
If  ever  He  allowed  us  choose 
The  wrong  way,  and  our  free  will  use 
To  bring  a  curse  on  all  around ; 
Would  not  the  same  on  Him  rebound? 

He  did.     It  did.     That  foul  thing  Hate 
Now  binds  the  so-called  uncreate. 
That  Hate  has  bound  him  from  the  day 
First  we  espoused  its  envious  sway; 

And  bind  it  shall,  till  hand  and  foot 
With  all  the  hosts  of  hell  to  hoot, 
Down  from  the  throne  He  descends — 
What  then?    Ah,  well — it  all  depends — 
And  this  time  is  hastening  on, 
The  props  are  swaying  'neath  the  throne; 
Hate  on  a  star  has  broken  out — 
Did  you  not  hear  the  victor's  shout? 
Two  more  spirits  with  free  will 
Have  chosen  the  side  of  sin  and  ill; 
Two  less  above,  two  more  below — 
Straws  show  the  current's  steady  flow. 
Yes,  on  a  tiny  star  in  space 
He  chose  to  show  creative  grace; 
A  sneaking  Godhead  chose  the  place 
To  start  a  procreating  race 

Of  spirits,  something  like  ourselves, 
But  badly  mixed  the  puny  elves. 
His  purpose  now  we  will  not  guess, 
As  he  has  made  it  such  a  mess. 

We  will  not  guess — 'tis  plain  to  see 
The  insult  deep  to  you  and  me — 
We  who  are  first  in  Fate's  creation, 
No  way  behind  the  great  Causation — 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  133 

Who  I  suppose  the  credit  takes, 
Calls  us  the  specimens  he  makes. 

Ain't  I  a  nice  specimen?     I  am  It — 

His  greatest  effort,  yes,  by  quite  a  bit. 

Look  at  me !     Do  you  blame  me  much 
For  thinking,  when  his  best  work  was  such, 

That  I  could  fill  his  place? 

Look  at  me !     Had  I  made  such  a  botch, 
I'd  quit  the  job,  and  never  again  touch 
The  high-toned  business  of  creating. 

And  now  he  tries  our  places  to  fill 

With  monkeys  minus  of  the  tail; 

Of  flesh  and  blood  and  spirit  mixed — 
A  loathsome  compound  he  has  fixed. 

'But  this  was  too  much  for  Fate, 
They  from  their  lethargy  awake; 

And  I,  their  servant,  they  have  used — 

This  horrid  insult  have  refused. 
This  awful  insult  makes  me  creep, 
And  makes  t!:e  very  heavens  weep; 

Yet  it  would  not  me  much  surprise 

If  God  would  take  what  we  despite — 
That  ruined  pair — try  them  to  save ; 
Try  to  make  their  progeny  behave ; 

Try  from  the  wreckage  save  the  living, 

To  fill  our  places  up  in  heaven. 
All  I  can  say  is,  should  he  try, 
Then  the  eternal  God  must  die. 

His  honor's  pledged,  and  try  he  must 

And  win,  or  grovel  in  the  dust. 
With  the  pretensions  he  hangs  out, 
A  slight  defeat  means  utter  rout. 

No  slight  defeat  will  mark  his  fall, 

But  crash  complete — the  fate  of  all. 


134  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

But  who  did  think  the  master  brain 
Grasped  such  a  plan  without  a  strain? 

Oceans  of  matter  to  create, 

His  slaves  with  mathematics  wait; 
Assort  it  into  masses  all — 
The  heat  escaping-  leaves  a  ball — 

At  least,  where  we  don't  interfere 

And  do  some  damage  to  the  sphere; 
Then  on  the  cooling  ball  he  started 
Life  in  matter — this  we  parted. 

He  it  made  to  procreate, 

We  pursue  with  bitter  hate; 
Higher  grows  the  grade,  however, 
We  still  pursue  and  ever  sever ; 

Still  evolves  the  mighty  plan, 

Culminating  in  this  man, 
With  spirit  even  like  to  us, 
A  horrid  thing,  a  mixed-up  muss; 

But  procreating,  making  more 

Who  soon  would  through  creation  soar. 

"Is  this  the  plan?     His  fertile  brain 
Went  long  ways  round  his  point  to  gain. 

But  well  you  know  how  I  was  watching; 
I  knew  each  scheme  that  he  was  hatching; 
I  thought  them  out  ere  they  were  done ; 
That  is  how  I  the  battle  won. 

Was  not  he  hot  at  being  fooled, 
And  muttered  something  as  he  cooled ; 
Something  about  a  bruised  head — 
Spoke  thus  of  one  he  counts  as  dead. 
Something  about  a  bruised  heel — 
I  do  expect  to  hear  them  squeal. 
Do  not  forget  that  head's  all  right, 
And  the  sole  cause  of  all  their  fright ; 


DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER.  135 

For  the  eternal  wheels  are  turning, 
And  hate  in  every  heart  is  burning; 

And  hate's  time  is  coming  on 

When  I  shall  mount  on  heaven's  throne. 
That  is  how  it  all  must  end. 
But  let  us  to  details  attend; 

So  no  discord  e'er  shall  mar 

The  conflict  on  that  little  star; 
So  we  may  formulate  a  plan, 
Let  us  look  up  this  compound  man. 

Within  a  beast  a  God's  enshrined 

Within  a  beast  a  Godlike  mind; 
Just  let  us  study  up  the  mix, 
Soon  we  will  have  them  in  a  fix. 

Amid  the  clanging  wheels  of  time 

How  did  God  perpetrate  the  crime 
Of  breathing  into  bestial  frame 
Our  spirits,  and  us  all  defame? 

A  speck  whose  course  we  can  not  trace 

Among  the  rushing  globes  in  space ; 

Scarce  see  the  star  round  which  it  wheels, 
Has  cooled,  and  has  in  spots  congealed. 

Upon  its  face  the  loafing  crowd 

Who  sputter  praise  to  God  aloud, 

When  they  before  his  presence  bask. 
Sought  a  relief  from  odious  task — 

When  in  vacation  'mong  these  balls — 

By  making  everything  that  crawls, 

Or  creeps,  or  flies,  or  swims,  or  walks, 
That  whistles,  hisses,  shrieks,  or  talks. 

Of  course,  our  fellows  were  arornd, 

And  joined  the  crowd,  in  which  they  found 
Congenial  sport  in  letting  out 
The  life  from  flesh  that  moved  about. 


136  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

And  still  the  loafers  changed  their  plans: 
Came  wondrous  beings  from  their  hands; 
Ugly,  uncouth,  in  curious  shapes, 
Till  near  the  last  they  made  the  apes. 
These,  like  themselves,  forever  try 
To  make  more  apes;  the  reason  why: 
So  loafer-like  have  they  become, 
I  blush  to  think  what  they  have  done. 
And  then  the  loafers  made  a  change 
Which  reached  the  limit  of  their  range; 
Now  the  plastic  life  they  mold 
With  ruthless  fingers  and  presumption  bold; 

They  have  of  life  a  thing  evolved 
So  like  themselves,  the  creature  vainly  tries 
To  worship  something;  with  uplifted  eyes, 

Looks  into  vacancy,  as  if  'twould  even  search 
For  some  one  seated  on  a  lofty  perch. 

"When  this  our  fellows  saw,  so  full  of  wit, 
They  got  a  demon  on  the  perch  to  sit. 

See  how  they  worship  him ;  his  anger  to  appease, 
With  eager  hands  now  some  one  else  they  seize, 
And  kill  him!     Oh,  but  we  have  been 
A  source  of  trouble  to  the  good  unseen ! 

See  how  they  vainly  try,  they  know  not  what. 
Why  thus  inclined  are  they?    What  foolish  act 
Of  our  old  chums  this  folly  to  permit? 
Knowing,  as  well  as  they  do,  we  no  longer  sit 
In  darkness  and  despair  within  the  gruesome  pit. 
Now  had  it  only  been  that  some  one  else  rebelled, 
And  he,  as  I  now  am,  had  been  expelled ; 
And  I,  as  in  the  past,  still  heaven's  legions  led ; 
Think  you  such  folly  had  been  charged  my  head? 
No,  mark  this  head!  you  never  found  mistake 
Or  anything  that  might  it  underrate 


DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER.  137 

When  I  you  led.     And  mark  this  head ! 

Though  I  with  you  have  dropped,  it  is  not  dead. 
No,  mark  this  head !  for  it  did  wisdom  sup 
Where  God  got  his,  out  of  the  selfsame  cup. 

When  I  the  heavens  searched,  I  found  the  spring 

Whence  wisdom  flows ;  now  I  know  everything. 
And  though  I  must  admit  sin's  dead'ning  power, 
And  feel  its  numbing  influence  this  hour, 

Does  it  affect  us  only?     It  is  weak'ning  He 

Who  boasting  claims  omnipotent  to  be. 

Witness  what  He  has  said,  what  He  has  done, 
On  that  small  planet,  'neath  the  blazing  sun. 

For  when  Jehovah  saw  those  things,  he  stood 

And  said  that  all  were  very  good. 

So  good,  he  took  some  apelike  men 
And  shut  them  up  into  a  pen, 

And  there  into  their  nostrils  breathed 

The  Breath  of  Life  which  we  received ; 
At  least,  they  in  the  pen  were  found, 
Though  made  when  we  were  not  around. 

The  rest  I  have  no  doubt  you  know ; 

I  do  not  wish  my  horn  to  blow. 

"And  now  these  lovely  things,  he  says, 
Will  bruise  my  head  in  course  of  days. 

Well,  I  suppose  that  means  a  fight, 

Which  will  exhaust  his  nerve  and  might. 
No  doubt  he  means  to  keep  their  love, 
That  he  seems  to  prize  above 

All  else.     Well,  if  he  wants  it  sure, 

Can  he  their  filth  and  shame  endure? 

I  fooled  them  when  their  hearts  were  pure; 
Now  shall  their  apelike  passions  rise, 
Most  loathsome  underneath  the  skies. 

Yes ;  if  he  tries  to  love  that  crowd, 

See  that  their  passions  smell  aloud. 


J38  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

No  beast  more  beastly  e'er  shall  live, 

Than  this  to  whom  our  life  he  gave; 
No  swinish  herd  love  filth  so  well, 
They  in  the  heart  of  men  could  dwell. 

But  should  he  choose  such  things  for  love, 

Mark  what  I  said  of  all  above. 
Surely  the  wheels  of  Fate  are  turning; 
.    In  every  heart  foul  hate  is  burning; 

And  a  change  is  coming  o'er 

The  Godhead,  which  we  did  adore. 
But  if  'tis  rottenness  he  wants, 
That  lovely  pair  shall  furnish  haunts 

Of  vice,  of  infamy  and  shame, 

At  present  difficult  to  name. 
For  I  foresee  how  strong  a  pull 
Their  inwardness — a  powerful  tool 

In  proper  hands;  and  here  they  are 

Millions  too  many  for  that  star. 
Millions  too  many  can  that  pair 
E'er  propagate,  or  earth  ever  bear; 

More  spirits  than  we  can  impress 

With  demon  shapes  and  filthy  dress. 
Were  all  the  planets  that  now  circle  round 
The  flaming  stars,  with  which  the  heavens  abound, 

To  teem  with  life,  as  long  as  life  can  last 

Upon  such  changing  surfaces;  when  such  time 

was  past, 

Had  all  said  life  have  lived  as  mammals  do, 
Would  their  vast  aggregate  outnumber  you? 

No,  no;  the  third  of  heaven 

Numbers  much  more  than  thus  would  life  b<- 
given. 

"So  now,  ye  demons,  mark  me  well; 
Ye  chosen  ones,  the  pick  of  hell ; 


DEATH    AND   THE)   REPORTER.  139 

Ye  volunteers,  so  proud  of  face; 

I  shall  expect  your  work  to  trace 
On  every  soul  that  you  send  here. 
Stamp  them  before  they  reach  the  bier; 

Brand  them  with  features  of  your  own ; 

Who  sees  the  work,  the  artist's  known. 
You  know  how  well  He  has  loved  you — 
Make  them  so  He  will  hate  them,  too ; 
Now  that  is  all  you  have  to  do. 

Hatred  is  what  you  want  to  nurse 

'Twixt  man  and  God ;  'twill  bring  the  curse  ; 
Make  them  like  us;  make  them  like  me; 
His  love  then  baffled  we  shall  see. 

"Now  I  know  I  might  surmise 

And  guess  his  plan,  and  appear  most  wise. 
But  I  openly  admit 
I  can  not  see  how  he  can  sit 

On  Justice's  throne,  and  have  a  plan 

For  salvation  of  the  man. 
And  I  venture  to  assert — 
And  I  have  scanned  with  mind  alert — 

There  is  no  plan. 
God  can  not  sit  upon  the  throne 
And  save  the  man.     No ;  he  must  groan 

Forever  and  ever,  just  like  us. 

Then  how  it  puzzles  me — this  muss. 
Something  I  tell  you  now  is  near; 
Something  that  doth  not  yet  appear; 

Something  no  index  of  the  past 

Alludes  to,  and  no  shadow's  cast 
By  anything  that  e'er  has  been — 
Ah!  what  can  be  Jehovah's  dream? 

A  God  who  is  the  sinners'  friend! 

However  can  the  matter  end  ? 


I4O  DEATH   AND   THE  REPORTER. 

It  can  not  be  that  he  will  try 
To  cleanse  this  Adam  ere  he  die; 

And  all  the  little  sinners  born, 

To  bring  them  safely  through  the  storm. 
His  plan  this  surely  can  not  be; 
But  we  will  have  to  wait  and  see. 

But  if  he  tries  that  foolish  plan, 

And  should  succeed — he  never  can — 
But  if  he  should  succeed;  what  then? 
Still,  they  would  all  be  ruined  men; 

For  Adam  has  the  old  law  torn; 

The  others  must  be  sinners  born. 
The  more  I  think  upon  this  thing, 
A  creeping  tremor  does  it  bring 

That  he  the  broken  law  may  mend, 

God  something  desperate  does  intend. 
He  has  really  staked  his  throne, 
And  this  thing  can  not  leave  alone; 

Even  though  he  would.     There  is  a  law 

Even  God  must  keep  without  a  flaw. 
It  holds  us  all  on  even  ground; 
In  the  same  category  found 

Are  we.     And  mark  me,  devils,  when  I  say 

There  is  something  near  to-day; 
Something  meant  to  us  surprise. 
Now  let  us  watch  how  hard  he  tries ; 

Let  us  fool  him,  that  we  will; 

To  fool  us  is  beyond  his  skill. 
The  worst  he  can  do  can  not  make  us  worse 
Than  we  are  now;  there  is  no  other  curse 

Can  fall  on  us  than  what  to  us  is  known; 

So  he  might  just  as  well  leave  us  alone. 
It  is  not  so  with  him  who  is  on  top; 
He  always  has  a  chance  to  drop. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  141 

If  this  Fall  to  his  glory  should  redound, 
In  Godhead  love  of  ruin  must  be  found. 

But  the  wheels  of  Fate  are  turning, 

In  every  heart  foul  hate  is  burning. 

That  was  my  dream  when  in  the  dazzling  light 
I  saw  his  glory,  guessed  his  source  of  might. 

"Power !     Thou  art  everything ! 

How  would  I  make  heaven  ring, 

Had  I  almighty  arms  to  swing! 

Would  ever  my  words  me  enthrall 
As  now  his  have?     No,  not  at  all. 

I'd  drive  creation  to  the  wall, 
Nor  suffer  loss. 

All  things  before  me  low  should  crawl; 
I'd  know  no  cross. 

Strength  would  be  Justice  then. 

Might  will  be  Virtue  when 
I  am  boss. 

And  let  me  tell  you  some  such  plan 

Is  the  only  way  to  save  the  man. 

For  if  he  tries  his  word  to  save, 
He  must  riot  like  a  brave ; 

He  must  smash  creation  vast, 

Till  he  alone,  as  in  the  past, 

Exists ;  his  memory  must  not  persist, 
But  swim  with  vagaries  and  mist. 

Yes ;  to  experience  he  must  charge 

His  whole  creation  vast  and  large; 

Minds,  matters,  forces,  laws  and  fates, 
All  must  be  left  without  the  gates, 

And  God  alone  must  sit  in  state; 

Not  triune,  to  recriminate; 

But  fearful,  awfully  alone, 

With  neither  Spirit  nor  with  Son, 

But  just  as  at  first  when  he  begun. 


142  DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER. 

"Now  I  suppose  that  you  may  think 
I'm  making  much  of  little  stink; 

But  surely,  as  my  mind  is  clear, 
It  truly  doth  to  me  appear, 
And  you  can  see  the  reason  why 
Either  man  or  God  must  die; 

Or  else  the  laws  must  be  erased, 
On  which  the  throne  of  God  is  based; 
And  some  dispensation  new, 
Which  never  will  to  truth  prove  true, 

Must  be  essayed. 

Not  since  to  me  the  first  of  time — 
My  own  existence — first  did  chime, 

Have  I  delayed, 

But  thought,  and  tried  hard  to  forecast 
What  bears  the  future  by  the  past. 

I  give  it  up. 

Nowr  we  will  have  to  wait  and  see 
What  his  future  course  shall  be. 

Slow  or  abrupt. 

But  there  is  one  thing  that  we  can  do: 
To  hell  and  hate  we  can  prove  true. 
And  those  microbes  on  the  ball, 
Those  things  which  on  its  surface  crawl. 
The  crowning  choice  of  His  great  love, 
Partners  of  Him  who  rules  above — 
We  will  train  them  for  their  home, 
Where  He  rules  the  great  alone; 
Make  them  fit  presents  for  the  King 
When  home  he  chooses  them  to  bring. 

"Now  I  suppose  some  will  be  there 
Who  may  escape  the  apelike  snare ; 
For  God  breathed  the  same  breath  in  man 
He  breathed  in  us  ere  time  began. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  143 

In  us,  and  all  who  of  our  kind 

Are  emanations  of  his  mind. 
And  this — whatever  name  you  call  it — 
This  breath  of  life,  who  can  enthrall  it? 

Who  thinks  that  he  can  blot  it  out, 

Is  but  a  fool  beyond  a  doubt. 
This  soul,  though  tangled  by  the  flesh, 
Will  surely  tr}^  and  break  the  mesh, 

And  will  aspire  to  soar  on  high, 

And  more  than  fleshly  lusts  will  try. 
Now,  when  you  find  one  of  this  kind, 
Aspiring,  and  of  noble  mind, 

See  that  you  furnish  him  a  theme, 

And  get  him  working  on  some  scheme. 
You  know  their  minds  are  just  like  ours 
In  some  degree,  with  feebler  powers; 

So,  then,  what  pleases  me  and  you 

Is  liable  to  suit  them,  too. 
So  I  would  not  feel  surprise, 
Should  ambition  in  them  rise. 

Well,  if  it  does,  see  that  you  train, 

And  make  comparison  their  aim. 
Their  highest  aim  to  be  on  top; 
On  all  the  rest  to  have  the  drop ; 

Just  like  the  I  Am  to  be; 

All  others  under  them  to  see. 
And  not  so  much  that  they  may  rise, 
Except  'tis  in  their  neighbors'  eyes ; 

But  that  on  others  they  may  frown, 

And  keep  the  other  fellows  down. 

"Now,  an  idea  does  me  strike 
Which  yet  may  lead  to  many  a  fight: 
Suppose  each  daughter  born  to  Eve, 
Filled  with  vain  pride  her  bosom  heave, 
Their  every  baby  make  believe 


144  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

He  was  the  greatest  ever  born; 

Would  not  many  a  heart  be  torn? 

And  many  a  one  would  bite  the  dust, 
When  grown  to  manhood,  fight  he  must, 

Or  prove  their  mothers  liars  are — 

That  will  make  a  lively  star. 

Yes,  there  will  be  lovely  times — 
Murder,  rapine  and  horrid  crimes. 

But  I  need  not  tell  you 

Everything  you  have  to  do; 

Your  essence  is  essential  mind; 
Your  prey  is  of  another  kind. 

The  enemies  with  whom  you  fight 

Are  'neath  you  far  in  mental  might, 
And  a  prey  of  them  to  make 
Would  very  little  scheming  take. 

If  they  were  only  left  alone, 

How  easily  we  could  bring  them  home. 
If  no  one  saves  them  from  their  sin, 
How  easily  we  will  rake  them  in. 

"Now  I  wonder  if  He  will 

Let  the  angels  try  their  skill 

At  helping  man  out  of  this  muddle — 
I  would  fool  them  and  befuddle. 

Have  not  we  seen  them  in  the  past, 

Ere  ever  sunlight  shadow  cast? 

Before  a  star  was  swung  in  space, 
Or  matter  found  a  resting  place? 

When  matters  now  condensed  in  star 

Were  most  ethereal  as  we  are; 

Saw  we  the  angelic  minds  essay 
Centers  of  gravitation  once  to  weigh, 

And  figure  out  where  stars  should  be, 

Where  even  mists  we  scarce  could  see. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  145 

Saw  we  not  then  how  subtle  mind 

Made  gravitation  claim  its  kind; 
And  yet  no  vacuum  leave  in  space, 
Though  of  gross  matter  scarce  a  trace. 

Then  did  we  see  how  laws  sublime 

Set  matter  whirling  true  to  time; 
As  still,  by  angel  minds  imprest, 
No  particle  can  ever  rest. 

Saw  we  not  then  each  whirling  mass 

Into  some  kind  of  system  pass; 
Forced  so  by  laws  which  He  ordains, 
Whose  every  wish  His  word  obtains; 

At  least,  till  on  that  little  ball 

His  word  did  He  himself  enthrall — 
Which  we  suppose.  Then  we  have  seen 
Commingling  masses  flame;  between 

Their  elements  a  mass  of  fire — 

Blaze  till  no  change  do  they  desire; 
Then  cool  and  form  the  solid  ground, 
Such  as  upon  the  earth  is  found. 

This  we  have  seen,  and  further  still: 

Life  we  have  seen  obey  their  will; 
No  longer  moved  by  flashing  flame, 
But  moved  by  life,  true  to  its  name. 

Yes;  we  have  seen,  though  strange  to  state, 

Life  moving  the  inanimate. 
Yes;  these  angels  seemed  to  ape 
Him  who  usurps  the  power  of  Fate, 

And  dared  to  make  a  living  thing; 

Dared  more  suffering  to  bring; 
Dared  to  make  a  living  cell, 
When  life  means  misery  to  tell. 

Yes;  this  we  saw,  and  saw  how  bold — 

Success  their  energies  extolled. 

10 


146  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

And  saw  we  then  what  curious  shapes 

Their  dreams,  the  plastic  life  cell  makes; 
To  live  and  die,  and  live  again, 
The  living  germs  shall  still  remain. 

Until  at  last  the  Master  mind, 

Not  wishing  to  be  left  behind, 

Pronounced  all  good,  and  made  those  things 
Which  consternation  nearly  brings. 

Breathed  in  their  nostrils  breath  like  ours. 

Stand  aghast!  ye  injured  Powers. 

And  then  you  know  what  ruin  wrought 
Your  humble  servant — by  me  brought. 

"This  we  have  seen;  but  what  is  next? 

With  what  now  is  the  future  vexed? 
So  many  things  there  are  to  puzzle, 
It  might  be  wise  my  mouth  to  muzzle. 

What  is  the  part  we  have  to  play? 

That  is  the  question  of  the  day. 
If  the  angels  carry  on 
The  work  as  they  have  done  so  long, 

Our  part  will  be  with  them  to  fight, 

And  run  creation  into  night. 

Who  fought  against  them  in  the  past, 
That  no  work  of  theirs  should  last? 

Who  was  it  spoiled  full  many  a  plan, 

As  starry  mist  together  ran? 

Who  was  it  when  on  cooling  ground 

The  then  strange  life  cells  first  were  found? 

Who  was  it  forced  them  back  again 

To  matter  dead,  as  dead  as  when 

No  angel  life  enlivened  them? 

And  who  it  was,  grown  bolder  still, 
When  energy  braced  the  angels'  will, 

To  cause  these  cells  to  procreate — 

Who  was  it,  fired  by  sullen  Fate, 


DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER.  147 

Made  death,  although  abhorred  by  all, 
The  pit  in  which  each  one  must  fall? 

So  well  did  we  this  power  enforce, 

Nature  seemed  to  then  indorse. 

In  fact,  so  natural  did  it  seem, 

I  feared  our  work  was  but  the  scheme 

Of  Him,  the  fount  of  wisdom's  stream; 

And  in  strange  keeping  with  the  mode 

Of  birth  and  death  of  their  abode. 

And  when  I  saw  that  beastlike  God, 
Our  spirit,  clothed  in  flesh  and  blood, 

I  thought  we  surely  had  been  fooled — 

That  He  our  work  had  overruled; 

So  that,  what  most  we  feared  would  come, 
Our  brains  had  toiled  to  get  it  done. 

A  procreating  bestial  spirit 

Meant  much  to  us,  I  could  not  bear  it. 

And  then,  you  know  what  I  have  done: 

I  have  outmatched  the  Holy  One; 

At  least,  o'erthrown  what  he  has  done. 

"But  what  is  next?    Do  we  now  fight 

With  Him,  the  source  of  power  and  might — 
Or  with  the  angels  face  to  face, 
Strive  for  the  prize,  the  human  race? 

I  wonder  if  this  Breath  of  Life 

In  man  will  also  join  the  strife, 

And  claim  o'er  matter  the  same  power 
As  we  and  angels  have  this  hour? 

Think  you  as  spirits  they  will  find 

How  matter  does  obey  the  mind? 

Or  will  their  will  power  be  confined 
Unto  the  flesh  of  their  own  kind? 

Or  will  the  beastly  so  enthrall, 

That  they  will  have  no  power  at  all ; 


148  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

But  with  their  fingers  and  their  feet, 
Matter  with  only  matter  greet; 

And  then,  as  knowledge  fades  away, 

Back  to  the  beastly  further  stray? 
That  is  one  way;  but  of  course 
I  may  guess  on  till  I  am  hoarse. 

Yet  we  may  venture  to  surmise 

In  some  such  line  their  pathway  lies. 
And  if  it  should — how  will  He  keep 
Knowledge  of  truth  in  things  so  sweet? 

For  mark  me,  Godhead  can  not  dwell 

Where  I  cause  mankind  to  smell. 

They  shall  live  as  beasts  of  prey, 
Murder  and  war  for  sport  and  play; 

They  shall  devour  the  form  divine, 

The  carcass  that  their  souls  entwine. 
They  shall  hate  Him  as  a  race, 
And  fling  their  curses  in  His  face. 

His  name  shall  grace  the  flippant  tongue, 

And  be  a  byword  for  them  among. 

I  think  I  know  what  He  can  stand 
Before  He  quits  and  leaves  the  land; 

And  I  will  see  that  quit  He  shall, 

So  we  may  riot  on  the  ball. 

"O  man !  puny  man ! 

Sad  is  the  breaking  of  thy  dawn; 
But  who  knows  what  thy  end  shall  be, 
Bound  up  with  so  much  mystery? 

Who  knows?    One  is  who  claims  He  does; 

But  claims  He  to  have  made  this  muss? 
What  I  should  really  like  to  know 
Is  how  He  means  the  truth  to  grow? 

How  from  the  father  to  the  son 

The  knowledge  of  the  truth  shall  run? 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  149 

How  He  intends  to  keep  truth  pure; 
How  they  shall  know  what's  said  is  sure. 

Truth's  hard  to  tell  from  fallacy 

When  it  is  handled  carelessly. 
Now  catch  a  glimmering,  if  you  can, 
The  lines  we  fight  with  God  and  man. 

He  has  permitted,  if  you  please, 

Deception  base  to  win  with  ease; 
He  is  committed  to  that  plan; 
Now  see  if  he  can  save  a  man. 

Yes;  'What  is  truth?'  shall  they  not  ask, 

And  vainly  question  all  the  past; 

Vainly  the  future  shall  forecast. 
If  we  on  equal  ground  with  those 
Who  now  are  proud  to  call  us  foes, 

Fight  on  the  earth,  and  our  sweet  prey 

Will  swallow  everything  we  say, 
And  everything  coming  in  their  mind 
Take  for  a  truth  of  some  new  kind, 

We  must  prepare  for  them  a  mess, 

And  serve  it  up  in  stylish  dress ; 
Something  to  desecrate  the  mind, 
And  make  the  inner  eyesight  blind. 

But  should  the  other  side  essay 

To  try  the  truth  upon  our  prey, 
Leave  that  to  me,  and  see  if  I 
Can  get  my  finger  in  the  pie. 

I  will  arrange  at  any  rate 

So  they  must  not  investigate 
Too  close,  for  truth  and  all  reality 
Have  been  my  speciality; 

And  all  its  genuflections, 

Involutions  and  deflections, 
From  the  slightest  variation 
To  the  absolute  negation — 
I  know  every  sensation; 


150  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

And  what  I  am  not  sure  about 

I  can  very  soon  find  out. 
When  on  that  ball  the  race  will  start, 
When  from  all  truth  the  race  will  part; 

When  in  the  race  'tween  God  and  devil, 

For  the  race  who,  filled  with  evil, 
Keep  sliding  down  into  the  pit 
Where  omnipotent  we  sit; 

Think  you  that  race  the  truth  would  know 

If  even  any  one  would  go 
And  truth  for  them  exemplify? 
Or  think  you  any  one  would  try 

And  live  the  truth?     Do  not  forget — 

I  will  blind  Jehovah's  pet, 
Till  what  is  truth  shall  seem  as  wrong, 
And  self  shall  mount  each  human  throne. 

No  longer  for  the  good  of  all, 

Truth  works  upon  that  little  ball; 
But  falsehood  tells  each  one  a  lie, 
And  says  the  greatest  one  am  I; 

And  me  all  others  should  obey, 

And  haste  to  do  whate'er  I  say. 

"Let  us  work  up  some  such  a  scheme, 
Then  discord  and  ruin  shall  be  seen. 

Or  if  some  of  them  should  combine, 

Exalt  some  big  I  for  a  time, 
And  him  they  all  praise  and  adore, 
And  say,  "Be  king  for  evermore"; 

Some  other  combine  soon  shall  rise 

And  lift  another  to  the  skies, 
And  praise  him  as  the  lord  of  all, 
And  want  him,  too,  to  rule  the  ball; 
Then  in  the  struggle  who  shall  fall? 

They  shall  those  reckon  by  per  cent., 

Who  from  the  earth  for  glory  went. 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  151 

Yes ;  falsehood  is  the  game  we  play ; 
Falsehood  shall  surely  win  the  day; 

And  blasted  truth  shall  never  grow, 

Where  I  it  try  to  overthrow. 
And  the  truth  shall  feel  so  strange 
Where  the  brood  of  Adam  range, 

It  must  wander  in  disguise, 

Where  we  flaunt  our  flaming  lies. 
If  ever  it  dare  raise  its  head 
It  must  be  strangled  until  dead — 

Absolutely  rooted  out — 

Will  not  then  the  victors  shout? 
That  is  the  game  at  which  we  play, 
And  triumph  surely  will  some  day. 

"Yet  there  is  something  we  must  not  disguise; 

Something  to  which  we  must  not  shut  our  eyes. 
In  cycles  all  Jehovah  sits  and  rules 
By  ministers,  who  are  his  pliant  tools. 

Even  when  the  conflict  raged  around  the  throne, 

Did  he  the  battle  undertake  alone? 

Or  victory  gain  by  massing  two  to  one? 
But  now  upon  that  little  ball, 
Creation  barely  did  precede  the  Fall; 

Scarce  did  he  the  Breath  of  Life  impart, 

Before  I  ruined  it  by  hellish  art; 
No  sooner  did  he  spirit  life  enthrone, 
But  I  appeared  and  claimed  it  as  my  own. 

There  were  no  underlings  to  blame  that  time; 

The  only  minds  at  work  were  his  and  mine. 
And  think  you  now  I  myself  flatter? 
'Twixt  me  and  God  this  is  a  private  matter. 

On  this  I  figured  long  ere  time  began, 

And  this  I  watched  for  as  the  ages  ran. 
This  is  the  prelude  to  the  winding-up 
Of  his  or  my  plans;  then  a  bitter  cup 


153  DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER. 

Some  one  must  drink.    Who  ?    That  is  the  ques- 
tion now 

On  which  we  ponder,  and  which  knits  our  brow. 
He  claims  wrong  can  be  righted,  once  'tis  done; 
I  claim  wrong  rules  forever  every  one 

Who  touches  it,  or  dreams  an  evil  thing; 

Like  poison  it  must  spread  and  ruin  bring. 
This  is  the  ground  on  which  our  forces  meet ; 
Man  is  a  trifle  in  the  balance  sheet. 

This  is  the  final  clinch  of  right  and  wrong, 

Who  wins  shall  mount  the  universal  throne. 
Watch  the  death  struggle,  final  is  the  loss; 
Who  loses  now  must  mount  the  shameful  cross. 

"But  was  I  fooled  when  dreaming  in  the  light, 
Ere  time  began,  or  we  experienced  night? 

I  dreamed  if  ever  there  was  sin, 

It  must  envelop  and  triumphant  win 

All;  everything  that  is,  or  was,  or  shall, 
Or  ever  may  exist — all  sure  must  fall 
Into  the  gorge  of  sin. 

Had  He  possessed  the  power  to  prevent, 

Surely  'twere  better  thus  He  had  it  spent. 

But  no;  sin's  time  had  come  by  the  decree  of 

Fate, 

Goodness  has  slowly  rotted  from  that  date, 
And  shall  until  it  is  obliterate. 

That  gives  us  heart,  that  makes  the  victory  sure; 

That  nerves  us  every  hardship  to  endure; 

If  there  are  hardships  with  such  vict'ry  near — 
Times  we  will  have  which  do  not  yet  appear. 

Surely  'tis  better  thus  to  fight, 

Than  languish  ever  in  the  night. 

"I  saw  two  comrades  once,  who  long  had  lain 
Without  a  move  upon  the  azure  plain; 


DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER.  153 

One  turned  round,  the  other  rose  and  went 
Where  atoms  were  by  gravitation  sent 

In  whirling  masses.     Round  he  saw  them  go 
Until  a  system  moved  majestic,  slow. 
He  saw  them  blaze,  and  cool,  and  form  the  ground, 
And  air,  and  water,  as  they  whirled  round. 

He  saw  life  start,  and  thrive,  and  change,  and 

die, 

And  many  transformations  'neath  the  sky; 
Saw  generations  come  and  generations  go, 
Saw  families,  and  groups,  and  species  flow  ; 
Until  too  cold,  the  lifeless  balls  did  roll 
A  frozen  cemetery;  no  living  soul 
Looked  on  the  central  orb,  which  now  was  dim, 
Yet  teemed  with  life  kept  by  the  heat  within. 

At  last  that  also  cooled;  when  all  were  dead, 
He  nothing  found  to  interest  his  head; 
And  so  returning,  saw  upon  the  plain 
His  comrade  just  then  turning  back  again. 

"Shall  we  thus  ever  and  forever  wait 
And  languish,  waiting  the  decree  of  Fate? 

Or  clinch  with  the  Almighty,  and  thus  hasten  on 

Fate's  ukase,  saying,  'Sin  must  mount  the  throne'? 
I  choose  the  latter.     You,  my  comrades  true, 

Have  shown  a  temper  of  the  truest  blue. 

So  now,  to  work ;  deep  counsel  every  move ; 

Never  may  I  your  carelessness  reprove; 

But  tireless,  waiting,  weigh  each  hellish  scheme, 
And  cause  this  ancient  countenance  to  beam. 

As  generations  come  and  generations  go, 

Experience  grows  with  us,  not  with  our  foe — 
At  least,  our  foes  on  earth;  and  He  on  high 
Sees  future,  past  and  present  with  His  eye. 


154  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

Well,  well,  see  if  he  does.  Comrades,  to  arms  again ! 
Our  ancient  home  awaits  the  victors,  but  the  slain 
Are  lost,  and  lost  forever;  say  amen,  amen." 

He  finished,  and  then  took  his  seat. 

No  uproar  did  the  silence  greet; 

No  wild  applause,  no  stamping  feet. 
All  felt  the  hour  of  fate  had  come; 
Each  felt  that  something  must  be  done; 
And  schemes  well  laid  are  halfway  won. 

They  with  each  other  counsel  take; 

Some  criticise,  and  some  suggestions  make; 
Some  thought  it  would  proper  be 
To  elect  a  committee, 

With  power  to  act;  who  would  report, 

And  make  suggestions  of  some  sort. 
Some  thought  'twas  all  uncertain  yet, 
And  we  had  better  wait  a  bit. 

Some  thought  'twas  best  the  old  Mogul 

Should  run  the  brain  work  through  his  skull ; 
And  as  we  talked  the  matter  o'er, 
This  met  approval  more  and  more. 

There  was  no  motion  worth  the  name, 

Yet  it  was  understood  the  same. 
So  it  has  been  from  then  till  now, 
The  plans  have  gone  through  Satan's  brow ; 

The  general  plan,  and  most  details 

That  cause  such  groans  and  bitter  wails — 
Each  has  his  scrutiny  surveyed, 
By  his  approval  been  essayed. 

Ill  it  has  fared  with  Adam's  race, 

Sin  has  a  stamp  on  every  face. 
His  oldest  boy  steeped  his  hands 
In  brother's  blood,  then  foreign  lands 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER-  15$ 

His  features  saw.     But  oh,  since  then 
What  carnage  men  have  wrought  with  men! 

What  animal  so  fond  of  gore 

That  its  own  relatives  it  tore, 

As  much  as  have  the  human  race, 
Spurred  on  by  Satan's  cunning  face? 

He  spurred  them  on;  they  grew  so  bad, 

Once  we  did  think  the  Godhead  had 

Drowned  out  the  race.     He  left  a  seed, 
And  saved  his  throne — just  saved,  indeed. 

We  thought  we  had  the  vict'ry  won; 

We  thought  sin's  triumph  had  begun; 
But  no,  the  rolling  wheels  of  Time 
Had  only  reached  a  place  to  chime; 

Only  reached  a  place  to  strike 

The  hour,  the  darkest  of  the  night — 

Then  on  they  rolled.     And  then  a  race 
God  separated  by  his  grace. 

He  severed  them  from  nations  round, 

As  if  his  glory  to  expound. 

He  set  them  up,  and  gave  them  laws 
Which,  Satan  says,  abound  with  flaws ; 

And  whispered  to  them  of  the  plan 

He  had  for  saving  sinful  man; 

And  wished  to  rule  them  all  alone — 
A  nation  ruled  from  heaven's  throne. 

But  ah !  how  we  rebellion  planned ; 

What  revolutions  marred  the  land; 

Satan  was  always  close  at  hand. 

He  said :    "This  is  the  battle  ground — 
Defeat  or  victory  here  is  found." 

Ill  fared  it  with  the  favored  race, 

'Twixt  demon  power  and  God's  free  grace. 
They  many  a  time  were  put  to  rout, 
And  once  we  thought  to  blot  them  out; 


156  DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER. 

But  when  he  saved  them,  such  a  mess 
Of  gratitude  their  souls  confess; 

Ill-savored  pride  their  sins  conceal; 

Ill-savored  pride  their  thoughts  reveal. 
Did  ever  nation  worse  than  this? 
Their  record  makes  the  heathen  hiss. 

So  much  for  Satan's  dext'rous  hand; 

He  was  the  ruler  of  the  land. 
But  oh,  the  plan  within  the  plan! 
The  plan  was  working  to  save  man. 

Whether  'twas  demon  skill  that  traced, 

Or  greedy  man  the  bauble  chased, 
God's  plan  worked  on;  God's  plans  are  one 
With  every  plan  beneath  the  sun, 

And  where  no  sun  did  ever  blaze; 

Plans  hatched  in  hell  are  for  God's  praise. 

And  so  in  fullness  of  the  time 
Another  hour  commenced  to  chime.' 
At  midnight  on  Judea's  plains 
An  angel  burst  the  visual  chains 
Of  shepherds,  watching  by  their  flock, 
And  unto  fleshy  ears  he  spoke; 

Told  them  of  the  redeeming  One, 
Told  of  the  birth  of  God's  own  Son. 
Quick  round  the  earth  the  tidings  flew, 
Quailed  every  heart  soon  as  they  knew, 
And  many  questioned  if  'twas  true. 

Doubts  do  not  stop  the  plans  of  God, 
Neither  do  sneers  block  up  his  road. 
The  time  had  come  as  was  announced; 
Yes,  God  has  come,  Satan  pronounced; 

Then  all  his  knowledge  brought  to  bear — 
Oh,  what  a  fearful  oath  to  swear! — 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  157 

Then  all  his  malice  was  incensed, 
And  all  his  cunning  was  condensed. 

But  who  can  fight  with  the  I  Am? 

Can  angel,  devil,  beast  or  man? 

When  we  first  tried  then  fools  began. 
Once  Satan  tried  the  baby  to  kill, 
But  found  the  task  beyond  his  skill; 

For  He  who  dwells  in  brightest  light 

Sees  blackest  plans  in  darkest  night; 
And  strong  ones,  ne'er  by  sin  made  groan, 
Were  watching  round  that  baby  throne. 

Even  Satan  grinned,  and  said 

He  knew  he  could  not  touch  the  babe; 
But  wait  until  he  is  of  age, 
And  in  his  bosom  passions  rage, 

If  he  be  man,  temptation's  power 

Will  overthrow  in  evil  hour; 
For  sin  ingrained  is  in  the  race — 
In  every  baby  finds  a  place. 

It  lurks  in  every  childish  heart, 

His  mother  must  the  seed  impart. 
If  he  be  God — well,  then,  who  cares; 
Is  He  come  to  examine  human  snares? 

Perhaps  He's  come  on  a  brief  sojourn 

Just  to  see  what  He  can  learn. 
Well,  that  is  right;  just  let  Him  come; 
All  incognito  let  Him  roam, 

Like  this  he  spoke.     Who  did  believe? 

Satan  spoke  thus — who  to  deceive? 
Deceived  he  us?    Death's  bitter  cup 
Was  easier  taken — not  one  sup. 

Quite  well  we  knew,  full  well  'twas  known, 

What  makes  us  fight — despair  alone. 


158  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Yes,  'tis  despair  rules  in  my  heart; 

No  ray  can  any  hope  impart. 

Was  it  a  ray  that  tried  to  thrill, 
Or  the  vibrations  of  a  chill 

That  through  me  crept,  when  once  I  knew 

That  God  on  earth  we  now  could  view  ? 
It  was  not  hope ;  no,  'twas  despair, 
Longer  had  crushed  than  we  could  bear, 

So  any  change,  e'en  for  the  worse, 

Seemed  welcome,  giving  chance  to  curse 
The  day  I  lived,  the  first  of  time, 
When  first  I  felt  the  breath  divine. 

Or  could  it  be  good,  lingering  still 

In  me,  accepts  the  Father's  will? 

No,  'tis  the  worst!     I  want  the  worst — 
His  fiat  damning,  hating,  cursed. 

Oh !  could  I  only  cease  exist ; 

Could  I  escape,  and  ne'er  be  missed. 

But  no;  'tis  memory  drags  me  down, 
And  I  am  here  from  foot  to  crown. 

'Twas  thus  I  felt,  when  wandering  round, 

My  duties  brought  me  near  the  ground 
Where  He  on  earth  his  palace  made, 
With  scarce  a  place  to  lay  His  head. 

Fearful,  as  something  in  me  quailed, 

I  thought  to  see  Him — nearly  failed; 

Then  forced  myself;  and  so  one  night 
I  watched  a  lake  by  starry  light. 

I  saw  a  boat  far  out  at  sea, 

That  boat  had  interest  for  me; 

Though  He  I  looked  for  was  not  there, 
Yet  they  His  fellowship  did  share. 

Could  I  tell  you  how  spirits  feel, 

Yet  even  I  might  try  conceal 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  159 

How  strange  I  felt,  when  down  the  hill 
I  saw  Him  come.     His  sovereign  will 

Moved  as  a  man.     No  zephyr  bore 

The  God-man;  no,  he  did  not  soar; 
But  as  a  common  man  walked  he, 
Till  close  beside  the  crystal  sea. 

He  did  not  stop,  nor  say  one  word, 

His  will — resist  it — 'tis  absurd; 

Old  Gravitation  knew  his  Lord, 

And  knelt,  and  worshiped,  and  adored. 

The  ripples  haste  to  kiss  his  feet, 

Then  melt  into  the  crystal  deep; 

The  zephyrs  with  his  garments  play, 
Then  hushed  in  silence,  haste  away. 

He  used  the  waters  as  a  road, 

While  Nature  worshiped  him  as  God. 

How  quickly  from  that  place  I  stole — 

I  had  to  liberate  a  soul 
From  earthly  clay ;  my  help  they  need ; 
So  off  I  went  with  utmost  speed. 

Yes,  back  I  rushed;  back  rushed  I  there, 

And  nevermore  to  see  him  swear. 
But  when  we  swear,  and  when  we  say, 
A  little  if  is  in  the  way; 

The  will  of  Him  whose  word  is  law, 

Can  we  that  will  bend  with  our  jaw? 
If  our  words  conflict  with  His, 
Our  oaths  will  surely  come  amiss. 

And  so  it  proved  with  me  that  time; 

His  will  conflicted  sore  with  mine. 
For  by  what  power  I  can  not  tell — 
His  power  all  other  powers  excel, 

And  embrace  all — so  by  what  force 

I  from  my  oath  soon  found  divorce, 


l6o  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

I  can  not  tell.     It  was  not  I, 
'Twas  not  my  will  caused  me  to  fly — 
But  by  an  unseen  force  compelled, 
My  will  in  me  completely  quelled. 

We  went  by  orders  from  the  throne. 

All,  all  were  there;  yes,  every  one, 

From  hell's  dark  gloom,  from  'neath  the  sun, 

From  heaven's  heights,  from  the  abyss, 

The  all-engulfing  bounds  of  space. 
Even  those  were  there  who  when  they  fell, 
To  outer  darkness  flew, 

Their  only  hope,  their  only  aim, 

All  others  to  eschew. 
From  everything  they  fled, 

From  self  they  could  not  fly; 
And  vainly  wished  they  could, 

But  dreamed  not  they  could  die. 
What  eons  thus  they  spent  alone,  alone,  alone, 
With  watchful  eye  intent  to  guard  each  secret  zone. 
Did  ever  light  they  see,  or  thought  that  it  they  saw, 
Away,  away  they  sped,  as  if  to  evade  law. 
But  there  the  law  of  death,  there  the  law  of  doom, 
Was  with  each  spirit  there,  in  each  sequestered  tomb. 
Despair  and  frenzy  there,  no  love,  all  else  besides, 
They  were,  as  you  would  say,  angelic  suicides. 

We  all  were  there,  yes,  every  one 

Above  the  embryo  grade  of  man. 
We  all  were  there  and  marshaled,  each  in  his  place  stood 

still  ; 
Earth  never  had  seen  such  a  crowd  as  gazed  upon  that 

hill. 
We  all  were  there  and  marshaled,  sent  there  by  the 

I  Am, 
Who  there  might  yet  be  visible — the  only  God  and 

man. 


DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER.  l6l 

'Twas  round  a  place  called  Golgotha,  we  centered  back 

and  back, 

And  further  and  still  further,  with  angel  powers  intact. 
I  can  not  tell  you  how  we  saw,  but  every  one  could 

see, 

Every  created  spirit,  free-willed  like  you  and  me. 
But  there  was  nothing  we  could  see — nothing  that  could 

be  seen 
To  interest  a  crowd  like  ours.     Why  not  now  raise  the 

screen  ? 
No;  still  they  keep  us  waiting,  waiting  in  silence 

there ; 
Some  wrapt  in  awe  and  reverence,  and  some  in  deep 

despair. 

But  there  we  all  stood  waiting ;  held  by  that  subtle  force 
Which  brought  us  there,  and  held  us,  and  our  own  wills 

divorce. 

Did  ever  Roman  Emperor  keep  waiting  such  a  crowd 
As  did  that  poor   Procurator,  who  talked  to  God 

aloud  ? 

Did  ever  Roman  army  hold  such  a  crowd  at  bay, 
As  did  the  mocking  soldiers,  who  were  on  guard  that  day  ? 
But  there  they  kept  us  waiting,  angels  and  seraphim, 
All  waiting,  breathless  waiting,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 

Him— 
Of  Him  who  made  the  scene  that  day,  of  Him,  the  only 

God, 

Whose  blood  would  trickle  down  that  day,  and  stain  the 
earth  and  sod. 

Yes ;  there  we  all  stood  waiting,  watching  the  pass- 

ersby ; 
And  sometimes  from  the  city  we  thought  we  heard 

a  cry. 

There  we  all  stood  waiting  till  well  the  sun  had  climbed, 
And  then  toward  the  city  gate  was  every  head  inclined; 
11 


l62  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

For  there  was  a  commotion,  excitement  on  the  road — 
A  crowd  of  men,  not  worshipers,  attending  on  their 

God. 

There  in  that  crowd  came  Satan — excited  was  no  name — 

The  way  he  looked  was  terrible,  dejected,  most  insane. 

And  there  I  saw  the  Mighty  One,  stagg'ring  'neath 

the  load 
That  crushed  him,  crushed  him  to  the  earth — the 

only  living  God. 

In  vain  the  soldiers  goad  him,  his  steps  were  feebly  slow  ; 
Was  it  the  weight  upon  his  heart,  the  weight  of  sin  and 

woe? 
Or  was  it  but  the  wooden  cross,  just  as  the  soldiers 

thought  ? 
For  soon  they  seize  a  passerby,  by  whom  the  cross 

was  brought. 

But  if  his  body  now  was  weak,  his  Godhead  still  re- 
mained, 

For  soon  to  weeping  women  words  of  wisdom  he  de- 
claimed. 
Self  is  not  with  the  great  I  Am  as  'tis  with  you 

and  me; 

The  great  vast  all  is  self  to  him — all  have  his  sym- 
pathy. 
The  one  disturbing  thing  is  sin,  that  his  wrath  must 

endure ; 
That  makes  another  god  than  he,  and  self  the  name  is 

sure. 
And  then   they   led  him   to   the  place,   along  with 

other  two 
Who  for  their  crimes  were  there  to  die;  he  was  to 

die  for  you. 
They  brought  him  to  our  very  midst,  the  center  of  the 

throng, 
The  center  of  that  waiting  crowd,  waiting  there  so  long. 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  163 

Not  long  they  kept  us  waiting.     They  offered  them 

strong  drink 
To  stupefy  their  mortal  powers,  so  that  they  scarce 

could  think. 

'Twas  then  I  noticed  Satan,  his  eyes  were  all  aflame. 
Deep,  deep  the  thieves  drank  of  the  cup;  Christ  tasted 

of  the  same, 
And  then  refused  it.     Satan  stood  as  stands  a  cur 

just  whipped ; 
Another  scheme  had  failed,  another  plan  in  the  bud 

is  nipped. 

Oh,  could  I  tell  you  how  we  felt !     Call  us  a  breathless 

crowd ; 
What  tremors  ran  throughout  our  throng!     Yet  no  one 

spake  aloud. 
For  now  the  soldiers  seize  a  man,  one  of  those  living 

three ; 
They  throw  him  down,  they  stretch  him  out  upon 

that  cursed  tree; 
With  fearful  clinch  one  seized  his  hand  and  stretched  it 

on  the  wood, 

While  with  a  hammer  and  a  nail  another  ready  stood. 
Down  comes  that  hammer!     What  a  shriek!     How 

he  did  curse  and  swear! 
While  ever  at  the  Paschal  Lamb,  how  Satan's  eyes 

did  stare. 
But  not  a  murmur  crossed  his  lips.     Saw  he  the  vast 

unseen 
Who  watched  him  there — those  myriad  eyes,  some  good, 

some  filled  with  spleen. 
They  clinched  that  hand  upon  the  cross,  convulsions 

shook  his  frame; 

They  stretch  the  other  arm  out,  and  nail  that  hand 
the  same. 


164  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

Convulsive  twists  contort  that  form,  how  he  his  hands 
did  tear! 

What  gasping  groans !  teeth  chattering  yells  ;  what  horrid 
oaths  to  swear! 

While  ever  at  the  Son  of  God,  how  Satan's  eyes  did 
glare ! 

But,  ah!  that  face  (who  can  describe!)  no  trace  showed 
of  despair; 

You  should  have  glanced  at  Satan,  though,  and  seen  it 

written  there. 

They  seize  those  feet,  they  hold  those  legs,  the  ever- 
ready  nail 

They  force  through  each  into  the  wood,  and  fearful 
pain  entail. 

They  lift  him  up,  the  cross  and  man,  the  cross  slips  down 
the  hole; 

A  fearful  wrench  the  body  jars,  most  severs  from  the 

soul. 
Too  much  it  seemed  for  human  nerves,  too  much 

for  human  strength; 

For  reason  reeled,  nearly  left  her  throne,  but  stag- 
gered back  at  length. 

Lifted  up  high!  thus  to  die! 

A  Roman  scarecrow !  that  is  why. 
A  living  picture — how  the  throne 
Of  human  hearts  God  calls  his  own 

Was  held  by  force,  was  held  by  fear, 

Where  love  alone  should  bind  and  cheer. 
Fit  was  the  time — a  grand  display 
Of  Satan's  work  was  made  that  day; 

Good  sample  how  the  race  he  ruled, 

Since  he  the  race  so  badly  fooled; 
Great  exposition  made  by  sin 
Where  the  new  era  should  begin; 


A  world's  fair  for  the  unseen, 

Whom  transparency  did  screen. 

It  only  screened  from  mortal  eyes, 
Not  from  the  natives  of  the  skies ; 

For  now  the  legions  of  the  light 

With  faces  veiled  seemed  bent  on  fight. 

They  veiled  their  faces  with  their  wings, 
For  soldiers  seize  the  King  of  kings. 
"Now  then,  O  King!  thy  throne  we  bring. 

Oh,  thou  great  King!  let  thine  arms  swing." 
So  said  those  Roman  gladiators, 
So  jeered  those  priests,  worse  than  abettors. 

The  roughest  part  of  Calvary's  road 

Was  holding  back  the  word  of  God; 
For  millions  who  ne'er  disobeyed 
Were  ready  when  the  word  was  said. 

This  knowing,  Satan  in  vain  did  hope 
To  hear  some  word  in  anguish  spoke; 

Some  word  conflicting  with  His  word — 

The  word  of  God — but  how  absurd! 
For  chaos,  night,  confusion,  death, 
Had  emanated  with  that  breath; 

And  dissolution  most  complete 

Would  every  force  of  Nature  greet. 
Did  hope  that  those  who  can  not  die 
Might  cease  exist,  make  Satan  try? 

Or  was  it  some  such  hope  as  this : 
"There  is  no  change  can  come  amiss"? 
It  was  a  desperate  game  he  played, 
A  cruel  part  that  he  essayed. 

But  vair  the  hope,  and  vain  the  thought — 

It  glory  unto  Jesus  brought ; 
For  those  disgraceful  wooden  beams 
Enthroned  the  glorious  King  of  kings. 


l66  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

As  regal  now  as  when  on  high 
He  ruled  the  millions  of  the  sky; 

His  word  was  royal,  till  at  last 

Victorious  over  death  he  passed. 

But  shall  I  tell  you,  mortal  man, 

What  no  bright  angel  ever  can? 
They  veiled  their  faces  from  the  light, 
And  gazed  not  on  the  horrid  sight. 

Can  I  describe  to  you  His  woe? 

Words  have  you  in  your  language?    No. 
His  nerves  were  never  dulled  by  sin, 
Decay  in  Him  could  ne'er  begin, 

Clogged  was  no  avenue  of  pain — 

All  was  reported  to  the  brain. 
Then  shall  I  tell  you  how  He  made 
No  resistance  when  they  laid — 

Had  He  resisted,  ah!  what  then? 

Angels  and  devils  !     Mortal  men ! 
What  and  where  would  now  we  be, 
Had  Chaos  won  the  victory? 

But  no;  though  laid  upon  the  cross, 

His  sovereign  will  sustained  no  loss. 
From  the  beginning  He  had  known 
That  He  for  sin  should  thus  atone. 

They  nail  those  hands  the  soldiers  hold; 

And  now  looked  Satan  somewhat  bold. 
But  vain  the  hope,  if  hope  was  there — 
Delusive  hope,  a  phantom's  stare. 

He  could  those  nerves  and  muscles  hold, 

Who  for  ages  all  controlled; 
He  was  still  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
Fighting  hard  that  sin  should  cease. 

Was  there  no  struggle?     Who  can  tell? 

We  speak  of  God  in  earth  and  hell, 


DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER.  167 

As  if  like  us  He  was  the  same — 

How  high  above,  the  Godhead  plane! 

Was  there  no  struggle?     He  held  back 
The  forces  that  no  power  lacked; 

For  mighty  ones  before  that  day 

Had  no  such  struggle  to  obey; 

And  holy  ones,  who  ne'er  before 
Did  aught  but  worship  and  adore, 

As  Love  and  Reason  fought  within, 

Love  brought  them  to  the  verge  of  sin. 

But  for  their  King's  restraining  power, 
That  would  have  been  an  awful  hour; 

For  now  the  cruel,  piercing  nail 

Holds  fast  those  feet  ne'er  known  to  fail 
In  Duty's  path,  in  Mercy's  road — 
The  feet  of  the  eternal  God. 

Now  even  Satan  stands  aghast! 

For,  fastened  to  the  wood  so  fast, 

The  soldiers  raise  the  cross,  and  God — 
The  sin  of  the  whole  world,  a  load. 

But  now  we  raise  our  eyes  on  high; 

There  is  a  flutter  in  the  sky; 

A  tremor  in  the  host  of  light — 
Are  they  preparing  for  the  fight? 

The  cross  slips  down.     With  anguish  torn — 

Anguish  that  kills — can  not  be  borne — 

The  Son  of  God,  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
Gave  orders  all  disturbance  cease; 

For  His  restraining  grace  that  hour 

Could  scarce  restrain  the  mighty  power 

Of  those  who  loved  Him — loved  so  well. 
What  had  they  done?     Ah,  who  can  tell? 

Christ  prayed  unto  his  Father  true : 
"Forgive,  they  know  not  what  they  do." 


l68  DEATH  AND  THE  REPORTER. 

They  know  not  what  they  do,  for  Hate 
Is  blind,  and  cursed  by  cruel  Fate. 

Had  Satan  known,  would  he  have  done 

What  victory  unto  Jesus  won? 

Scarce  had  the  prayer  escaped  His  lips, 
Than  back  each  flurried  angel  slips. 
That  prayer  was  a  relief  for  some, 
Though  hard  to  tell  what  worse  could  come. 
But  if  the  powerful  ones  on  high, 
The  righteous  spirits  of  the  sky, 
Suffered  with  the  suffering  One, 
In  lower  regions  there  was  fun — 
The  strutting  bipeds  of  the  earth 
Of  suffering  God  made  sport  and  mirth. 
Even  the  very  passersby 
Wagged  their  heads  with  some  such  cry: 
"Ah,  thou  temple-building  God! 
The  cross  for  thee  was  too  much  load! 
Take  only  three  days  to  restore 
What  took  us  forty  years  or  more! 

Come  down,  thou  mighty  Son  of  God, 
Forsake  the  cross  and  walk  the  road." 
Had  he  listened  to  that  cry, 
Where  now  would  be  this  creature,  I? 

Scribes,  priests  and  elders  had  their  say, 
And  taunted  him  in  some  such  way: 
"He  others  saved,  but  can  not  now 
Wipe  the  sweatdrops  from  His  brow. 
Thou  exposed  King  of  Israel, 
Make  thyself  invisible; 
From  the  wooden  cross  come  down, 
And  we  will  tremble  at  thy  frown." 

I  trembled  lest  He  grant  the  request, 
And  make  reality  of  the  jest. 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  lO 

In  vain,  in  vain  did  Satan  try — 
Christ  listened  to  each  taunting  cry. 

The  Sovereign  who  the  world  had  made, 

Was  Sovereign  still  when  all  was  said. 
His  boundless  love  upheld  His  will; 
Christ  was  the  loving  Savior  still. 

For  though  they  said,  "God  is  his  trust; 

Let  Him  now  His  fetters  burst; 
Let  some  great  deliverer  come; 
Surely,  He  will  save  His  Son!" 

Yet  goodness  from  His  features  beamed; 

Stronger  than  anguish,  mercy  seemed. 
For  when  one  malefactor  railed, 
"If  thou  art  the  Christ,  thus  nailed, 
Save  thyself  and  us," 

The  other  said,  "Now  justly  we 

Suffer  on  the  cursed  tree; 
But  what  hath  this  man  done? 
Jesus,  when  to  thy  kingdom  come, 
O  Lord,  remember  me !" 

Christ's  heart  seemed  rilled  with  loving  grace 

Godlikeness  beamed  o'er  all  His  face ; 
He  did  not  use  the  words  of  men, 
Such  as  if,  or  but,  or  when; 

He  used  the  royal  words  He  brought 

From  heaven,  which  His  Father  taught. 
"Truly,  thou  shalt  surely  be 
To-day  in  Paradise  with  me." 

Through  the  legions  of  the  sky 

Ran  another  tremor.     Why? 
Their  golden  harps  they  left  behind, 
And  now  it  flashed  upon  their  mind ; 

But  though  they  held  their  very  breath, 

As  still  as  those  who  wait  on  death, 


I7O  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Heard  I  as  faintest  lullaby 
The  choir  of  heaven  in  symphony. 
For  He  of  all  the  myriads  there, 
On  the  earth  or  in  the  air, 
He  was  the  only  one  could  say: 
"Though  heaven  and  earth  should  pass  away, 
Yet  my  word  will  ever  stay." 

The  dying  God  now  looked  around — 
Incarnate  mystery  profound — 
And  saw  his  mother  standing  near, 
With  other  friends,  though  none  could  cheer. 
The  dying  man  his  mother  saw, 
And — pattern  without  a  flaw — 
All  his  affairs  he  settled  up; 
For  many  this  a  bitter  cup. 

Then  a  bright  angel  in  his  might 
Coerced  the  sunbeams,  so  the  light 
Streamed  not  upon  the  horrid  scene, 
But  darkness  answered  for  a  screen. 
This,  as  Satan  has  explained, 
Was  rebellion  never  named; 
For  in  his  love  that  angel  risked 
Eternal  life ;  he  might  have  missed 

His  birthright,  and  with  us  in  hell 
Forever  been  condemned  to  dwell. 
So  Satan  says! 

But  did  He  ever  speak  at  all, 
When  the  darkness  like  a  pall 

Hung  upon  the  scene? 

It  may  have  been; 
But  if  He  did, 
His  words  were  very  low  and  hid. 

I  rather  think  He,  like  the  rest, 

Thought  silent  policy  the  best; 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  1 

Leaving  for  presumptuous  man 
The  consummation  of  the  plan. 

But  silently  with  bated  breath 

They  watched  around  that  scene  of  death; 
For  the  plan  was  working  well — 
Brought  them  relief  from  death  and  hell. 

No  jeering  now  adds  to  His  pain, 

Slight  the  display  their  taunts  restrain ; 
Slight  the  display  of  Godlike  power 
That  stopped  the  ribald  jest  that  hour. 

Their  work  was  nearly  finished  now ; 

Our  work  was  to  be  finished,  how? 
For  who  that  bears  the  name  of  death 
Could  liberate  the  God-man's  breath? 

Three  hours  we  watched  in  darkness  there; 

Three  hours  of  watching  and  despair; 
Three  hours  of  thinking — but  what  array 
Of  thoughts  crowded  'round  the  mystery. 

Is  all  this  time  and  all  this  space — 

This  epoch  in  the  eternal  race 
Of  all  existence — only  an  interlude 
Of  vast  eternity? 

To  prove  that  God  is  love, 
And  that  our  ancient  love  can  rule 
All  but  the  veriest  fool 

Of  free-will  creatures? 

To  prove  in  eons  yet  to  come, 

When  all  of  sin's  vile  race  is  run; 
When  the  recording  angel's  done 
With  overt  acts  of  sin; 

When  the  judgment  is  come  and  gone — 

All  reap  the  seed  that  they  have  sown. 
Eons,  yes,  eons  after  that, 
Should  any  dare  to  dream  of  what 


172  DEATH  AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Would  happen  them  should  Love  release  her  hold, 
And  something  else  should  make  them  bold; 

Our  record  will  be  found  up  there, 

Where  everything  is  bright  and  fair. 

And  we — we  shall  be  found,  oh,  where! 
To  warn  them  of  the  ghastly  snare. 

And  this — this  dying  God, 

So  helpless  in  his  blood — 

The  record  of  this  awful  day 

Will  surely  chase  the  thought  away, 

And  teach  them  how  to  keep 

Love  forever  pure  and  sweet. 

O  vast  eternity! 

Boundless  eternity! 
Not  as  one  day  exists  all  wrong, 
Compared  with  thy  unending  song; 

But  ever  and  as  long  as  thou  shalt  last, 

This  gloomy  cross  will  its  shadow  cast, 

To  mellow  and  keep  each  spirit  fast 
In  Love's  pure  chains. 

Is  this  the  reason?    Is  this  why 

The  holy  Son  of  God  must  die? 
Was  it  thus,  and  only  thus, 
God  could  create  spirits  like  us — 

So  free  we  might  his  love  obey; 

So  free  we  even  could  say  'Nay'? 
But  now  Love's  awful  wrong  is  seen 
Sculptured  upon  that  wooden  beam. 

When  the  record  is  filed  away 

Of  every  phase  of  sin  in  clay, 
Of  every  phase  of  sin  in  spirit — 
What  sheet  of  parchment  e'er  can  bear  it? 

When  the  nothingness  of  sin 

Is  proved  so  none  will  try  again; 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  173 

When  Sin's  horrid  work  is  done, 

And  Truth  and  Love  have  victory  won; 
When  the  blacklist  is  made  out, 
And  they  no  longer  roam  about; 

Surely  this  record  then  will  keep 

Each  free-willed  creature  pure  and  sweet; 
Surely  our  anguish  from  the  deep 
Will  warning  toll  so  none  may  sleep, 
And  dream,  and  die,  and  ever  weep. 

For  every  phase  of  sin,  one  there 

The  proper  punishment  will  bear, 

With  writhing  torture  and  despair. 

This  with  the  record  filed  on  high, 
Love's  wrong  will  thus  exemplify, 

To  those  who  thus  will  never  try 

To  dream  as  Satan  did  and  die. 

Truly,  as  love  does  love  beget, 

The  love  that  binds  in  blood  and  sweat; 

The  love  that  let  them  crucify 

The  Mighty  One,  that  he  should  die; 
Will  surely  touch  the  human  heart, 
And  all  our  former  love  impart. 

But  how  He  justice  did  appease — 

How  from  the  penalty  release, 

I  can  not  find  words  to  explain, 
Where  thoughts  depend  on  fleshy  brain. 

But  that  He  did  it  satisfy 

Is  clear  to  all  beyond  the  sky. 
For  if  the  law  embodier  die, 
From  whom  then  will  the  culprit  fly? 

That  will  not  do;  words  will  not  grasp 

The  thoughts  that  through  my  mind  then  passed. 
Self  dies  in  love  when  God  for  love  has  died — 
The  force  which  bound  us  all  ere  Satan  lied. 


1/4  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

The  old,  old  force  which  ever  bound  us 
To  himself  and  all  around  us 

Has  bound  its  God  upon  a  cross  to  die; 

And  Envy  ne'er  again  can  forge  the  lie 
Of  greatness  false,  for  greatness  true 
Is  slavery  to  love — the  old,  old  love,  yet  ever  new. 

And  soon  shall  horrid  self  be  all  forgot, 

Save  when  the  rebel  crew  show  up  in  living 

death — • 

Eternity's  lone  beacon. 
But,  oh,  his  boundless  love!  unselfish  love! 

The  old,  old  love,  with  which  he  bound  us 

To  himself  and  all  around  us, 
Now  binds  his  Son  upon  a  wooden  beam; 
No  other  power  in  heaven,  hell  or  earth  was  ever 
seen 

Could  hold  him  there  one  moment. 
O  poisoned  love !  perverted  love ! 

This  misused  love !  this  septic  love  called  Hate — 

This  truly  is  the  rankling  sting  of  Fate, 
To  all  eternity. 

Is  this  God's  plan?    This  the  only  way 
He  could  create  those  who  can  say 

"I  will"  or  "I  will  not"? 
Lower  grades  create  he  might, 
Who  certainly  could  never  blight 

His  truth  or  strain  his  love. 

And  did  he  all  this  know?     He  must  have  known 
From  all  eternity  the  higher  grades  would  own 
Freedom  so  complete  that  some  would  sin ; 
The  lowest  grades  (half  beast)  would  deceive  and 

win. 

That  some  might  be  redeemed,  his  only  Son  would  die ! 
And  ye.t  he  would  create,  so  free,  so  high, 
That  now  a  God  we  see  in  dying  agony. 


DEATH    AND   THE    REPORTER.  1/5 

Oh,  the  boundless  love !  that  all  this  ever  knew, 
And  still  would  freedom  share  with  myriads  not  a 
few. 

What  if  for  one  short  eon,  named  by  mortals  "time," 

'Gainst  gruesome  darkness  God's  pure  love  must  shine ; 
Will  not  the  contrast  to  all  eons  keep 
The  good  from  sin,  so  none  may  die  and  weep? 

Will  it  not  show  ?     How  else  could  we  have  known 

Love  had  the  strength  to  pull  God  from  his  throne 

To  die? 

O  boundless  love !     O  horrid,  horrid  sin ! 
God  dies !     Man  dies !     Angels  have  death  within  ! 

But  how  will  Sin's  short  eon  with  Eternity  compare? 

Between  a  raindrop  and  vast  ocean's  bulk 

Some  ratio  may  exist,  but  not  between 

Time  and  Eternity. 

When  Time  and  Sin  are  gone,  Eternity  will  roll, 
Ever  and  ever  roll,  entranced  in  boundless  love. 

Then  thought  I,  "What  would  Satan  do," 
Now  that  the  plan  was  full  in  view? 

And  guessed  I  well,  for  guess  I  did, 

He  would  try  hard  to  keep  it  hid ; 

To  keep  it  from  the  ears  of  men — 
The  glorious  news :  God  died  for  them. 

Beat  back  the  news  long  as  he  could, 

Which  saves  from  death  when  understood ; 
Unsaved,  so  he  might  rake  them  in 
To  hell,  where  love  can  never  win. 

Millions,  yes,  billions,  he  will  grasp 

In  ignorance,  and  hold  them  fast 

Till  they  are  dead;  those  he  will  cast 

Into  hell's  gorge. 
If  the  light  even  slowly  spread, 
He  must  get  millions  of  the  dead; 


.  •  *. 


176  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

Millions  he  will  never  get, 
If  the  recording  angel's  check 

Stamps  not  millions  of  excuses, 
Poor  apologies  and  ruses; 
Or  even  worse — the  baby  act; 
Made  by  men  with  powers  intact; 

Made  by  those  whom  Satan's  might 
Holds  back  so  that  they  will  not  fight; 
Will  not  help  to  spread  the  light. 
But  yet  the  deed  we  see  this  day 
Must  even  nerve  the  human  clay, 
Until  as  angels  fight  will  they 
The  truth  to  spread,  His  voice  obey. 
And  then,  oh,  then,  how  bright  will  be 
The  face  of  earth,  when  all  can  see 
Their  dying  God  nailed  to  this  tree. 
This  surely  will  the  veriest  I 
Nail  to  a  beam  and  crucify; 
This  surely  will  His  love  impart 
To  every  soul  who  claims  a  heart; 

And  Earth,  O  Earth!  thy  dying  God 
Will  make  thee  fit  for  their  abode; 
And  Science  with  Love  will  unite 
To  cleanse  their  home,  and  make  it  bright; 
To  make  it  fit  for  the  abode 
Of  those  he  calls  "the  sons  of  God." 

These  are  some  thoughts  which  at  that  time 
Kept  passing  through  that  head  of  mine, 
There  as  unwillingly  that  day 
A  spectator  forced  was  I  to  stay; 
Forced  witness  to  the  culmination 
Of  a  plan,  the  date  of  whose  inception 
So  far  precedes  my  first  connection 
With  life  and  things, 


DEATH    AiND    THE    REPORTER.  177 

That  the  difference  'twixt  the  time 
You  live  and  I  exist 

No  ratio  brings. 

But  dreamt  I  ever  ?     Ne'er  did  I, 
He'd  take  that  body  to  the  sky, 
And  show  those  nail  prints  up  on  high. 

Surely,  this  to  eternity 

Will  keep  each  heart  from  enmity. 
Envy  will  surely  never  boast 
'Gainst  love  displayed  at  such  a  cost. 

Surely,  he  has  guarded  well, 

So  none  will  make  another  hell ; 
Surely,  Eternity  can  roll, 
And  roll,  and  roll,  and  ever  roll, 

But  none  will  ever  doubt  again 

The  love  that  stood  such  awful  pain. 
Eternity  is  safe  from  sin, 
When  lives  the  "Lamb  as  had  been  slain." 

Was't  all  for  you  this  deed  was  done? 

It  reaches  further  than  the  sun, 
Away  beyond  the  reach  of  star — 
Its  influence  spreads  beyond,  afar ; 

Afar  in  space,  afar  in  time, 

Afar  its  influence  must  chime 

O'er  all  and  all; 

And  ever  must  this  influence  keep 
Love  enduring,  pure  and  sweet. 

Ashamed  would  Envy  hide  her  head, 

To  envy  one  who  had  been  dead, 
To  envy  one  by  envy  slain — 
Can  envy  e'er  break  out  again! 

Can  it  be  all  this  is  done, 

So  higher  yet  the  grades  may  run; 
So  higher  yet  and  freer  far, 
.  All  may  evolve  who  holy  are ; 
12 


178  DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER. 

So  more  like  God,  companions  more, 
The  saved  and  holy  may  adore? 

Their  view  of  greatness  now  has  grown ; 

Who  serve  are  nearest  to  the  throne ; 

Who  serve  the  most  are  most  like  God. 
He  staggered  'neath  a  fearful  load; 

He  bore  the  cursed  load  of  sin; 

Who  serve  the  most  are  most  like  him. 
Would  Envy  envy  him  a  serf? 
Was  he  much  better  when  on  earth? 

He  was  a  workman  with  his  hands, 

Whoe'er  awaited  his  commands? 

Now  in  those  wounded  hands  he  shows 
Where  nails  were  forced  by  cruel  blows; 

He  shows  these  nail  prints  on  his  throne — 

The  highest  place  in  heaven's  dome. 
Ah,  thus  it  may  be,  thus  it  is — 
Who  serve  are  saved,  the  others  miss. 

And  what  they  miss!     This  range  of  thought, 

This  evolution  dearly  bought, 

This  growing  fullness,  never  full, 
Knowledge  fresh  from  Wisdom's  school; 

Ever  learning,  grasping  more, 

With  freedom  everywhere  to  soar; 
Not  fettered  as  we  soon  shall  be, 
All  vast  creation  they  may  see; 

Not  curbed  with  growth  forever  stopp'd, 

With  thoughts  whose  gnawing  can't  be  dropp'd; 
Their  great  ambition  but  to  die, 
As  thus  for  eons  some  will  lie, 

A  living  spectacle  of  woe — 

Living,  the  effects  of  sin  to  show. 
Living — say  dying,  chasing  death, 
Ever  cursing  with  their  breath; 


DEATH    AND   THE    REPORTER.  1/ 

To  show  how  every  phase  of  sin 
Is  punished,  so  none  try  again. 

'Tis  hard,  but  some  forever  will; 

Ever  is  part  present,  that  you  fill, 
If  now  some  punishment  you  feel; 
If  pain  sometimes  your  essence  reel, 
Why  not  for  aye? 

Who  promised  you  eternal  sleep? 

Who  whispered  you  would  never  weep 

Through  all  eternity? 
If  'tis  not  wrong  that  you  feel  pain, 
Why  should  it  not  recur  again — 
Again,  again,  again,  and  evermore  again? 

'Tis  a  false  hope — a  deep,  deceiving  jest 

Which  demons  nurse  within  your  breast; 
That  paints  the  future  all,  as  well, 
And  gives  the  laugh  to  endless  hell. 

'Tis  but  a  part  of  Satan's  scheme 

That  lulls  to  death,  with  frights  between, 

When  you  catch  glimpses  through  the  screen. 
Sometimes  he  does  the  screen  withdraw, 
And  lets  despair  enforce  the  law ; 

In  all  such  cruelty  he  gloats, 

To  him  these  are  the  festive  spots; 
These  are  the  spots  that  seem  to  thrill 
The  frozen  glaciers  of  his  will. 

I  see  it  now,  but  all  too  late; 

Despair  forever  seals  my  fate. 
Why  talk  I  thus?     Your  will  is  fate. 
Yes,  now  it  is;  there  'tis  too  late. 

But  what  a  victory  he  won ! 

The  tempted  God!     God's  tempted  Son 
Victorious  now  where  others  fell, 
Exposed  the  sophistry  of  Hell ; 


•  - 


l8o  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

Proved  temptations  are  not  sin ; 

Free  will  implies  no  wrong  within, 

Nor  yet  without. 
Only  his  own  will  to  bow, 
And  man  may  dwell  in  glory  now ; 

For  a  road  from  Calvary's  brow 

Is  opened  up  to  heaven.     How? 
See  that  dying  God! 
Open  now  the  road! 

See  him  the  ransom  pay! 

Can  Death  and  Hell  gainsay? 
Eternal  Justice  holds  the  scales, 
And  truest  balance  never  fails. 

She  holds  them  up  on  high, 

Before  the  Father's  eye. 
Then  listen  to  that  cry! 
Out  from  the  darkness  why 

Forsaken  by  his  God, 

Too  much  the  fearful  load; 
His  common  language  fails, 
In  childhood's  tongue  he  wails; 

Sees  an  averted  face; 

Stern  Justice  in  its  place, 
Exacting  to  the  last; 
Now  also  that  is  past. 

He  knows  'tis  finished  now; 

Hear  Him  say,  "I  thirst." 
Who  helps  the  dying  man? 
Yes,  help  him  if  you  can; 

For  millions  in  the  air 

Would  help  him  if  they  dare. 
He  takes  the  proffered  drink. 
Ye  myriad  angels,  think! 

Your  Maker  nailed  so  fast, 

Must  in  anguish  ask 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  l8l 

Of  rebels  for  a  drink! 
Ye  myriad  angels,  think! 

But  what  was  that  he  said? 
"Tis  finished!"     Is  he  dead? 
Death,  forward?     No,  not  I. 
Listen  to  that  fearful  cry. 

Down  steps  the  great  I  Am; 

Stand  upright  now  who  can; 
Down,  down,  each  spirit  there ; 
Prostrate  if  still  in  air. 

Prostrate  because  they  must — 

Every  demon  bit  the  dust; 
Flat  on  the  trembling  earth 
Every  devil  found  a  berth. 

And  how  that  earth  did  quake, 

How  everything  did  shake; 
For  there  stood  the  I  Am ; 
Not  now  as  when  in  man — 

No  longer  now  concealed, 

But  Holiness  revealed. 
There  as  we  trembling  lay, 
I  heard  an  angel  say: 

"O  Thou,  thrice  holy  One, 

Now  that  thy  work  is  done, 
Now  Thou  triumphant  art, 
Reign  Thou  in  every  heart. 

See,  now  thy  body  sleeps, 

Thy  earthly  friends  but  weep. 
We  Thee  adore! 
Suffer  shame  no  more ! 

The  guards  of  Eden  wait  their  Lord — 

They,  with  the  flaming  sword ; 
Say  but  the  word,  and  now 
We  stand  on  Calvary's  brow." 


l82  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

The  Prince  of  Glory  said: 
"Angels  with  power  arrayed, 
Nay;  do  not  interfere 
With  circumstances  here. 

For  now  my  love  is  sown 

Not  in  your  hearts  alone; 
Now  in  the  human  breast 
Works  the  love  that  will  not  rest, 

Until  all  the  world  shall  know 

Of  my  blood  which  here  did  flow. 
That  love  will  not  quiescent  be; 
It  will  conquer  all  the  free. 

My  love  in  the  human  heart 

Strength  to  the  feeble  will  impart, 
Until  all  the  world  shall  hear 
Truth,  which  man  alone  can  cheer. 

Love  will  be  their  motive  power, 

Their  incentive  from  this  hour ; 
And  my  body  now  I  give 
To  the  love  of  those  who  live. 

To  them,  not  you,  I  give  this  charge; 

You  have  other  fields  so  large; 
To  these  fields  do  now  repair, 
And  my  love  be  with  you  there." 

So  spake  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord, 

In  some  such  way  spoke  the  Adored. 

Then  the  legions  of  the  blest 

Sought  each  the  work  that  suits  them  best: 
And  the  demon  legions  lay 
Prone  in  the  open  light  of  day; 

But  finding  soon  that  Jesus  was  not  there, 

Roused  every  demon  from  his  lair, 
And  Satan,  looking  all  around, 
Gave  vent  to  gusto  most  profound: 


"Comrades,  here  we  are  again ! 
What  much  ado  He  makes  of  men ! 

Comrades,  what  is  this  about? 

Whether  now  to  laugh  or  shout 
I  scarce  can  tell. 
But  such  folly  out  of  hell 
Who  ever  saw? 

And  the  darkness  of  the  pit 

Would  not  foolishness  permit 

Such  as  this. 

Look  at  Him !     Just  look  at  Him ! 
The  Almighty!     Look  at  Him! 

Dreamed  you  ever  such  a  thing! 

Give  imagination  wing, 

Harps  of  sulphur  music  ring, 

Dream  of  this. 

Has  not  He  almighty  power? 
Why  the  farce  we  see  this  hour? 

Is  He  omnipotent?     (He  is,  or  He  is  not.) 

Or  is  this  farce  beyond  our  thought? 
It  matters  not  whatever  view  you  take. 
How  can  it  any  difference  make? 

If  He  could  sin  and  misery  prevent, 

Why,  then,  upon  us  was  it  sent? 
If  He  could  not  prevent  it  (whate'er  He  claims), 
There's  a  power  above  what  He  ordains — 
It  matters  not  to  us. 

When  He  made  all  the  laws,  did  He  ask  our 
consent  ? 

Why  bring  us  here  to  see  His  fury  spent, 

And  these  same  laws  all  torn  and  rent? 
Why  this  tragedy  at  all? 
How  connect  it  with  the  Fall? 

What  good  moral  would  He  teach, 

All  this  justice  to  impeach? 


'  *. 


184  DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER. 

Why  not  smash  and  change  it  round 
Till  no  trace  of  it  be  found? 
I  suppose  He  made  it; 
No  one  doubts  it — He  has  said  it — 
Said  He  did— 
And  could  He  fib? 
Oh,  no;  but  look  at  Him! 
Just  look  at  Him!" 

Beelzebub  arose  and  said:    "Say,  Satan,  now 

We  all  know  he  is  dead;  and  waiting  thou, 
Go  insult  that  body  there; 
His  angels  they  have  vanished — where? 

Who  now  will  interfere? 

See,  your  comrades  all  are  here." 

But  Satan  looked  around  and  said : 
"Yes,  I  know  that  He  is  dead; 

But  dead  and  on  the  cross  alone, 

He  is  as  safe  as  on  His  throne. 
The  dead  Almighty  on  that  tree 
Is  still  almighty  unto  me; 

I  puzzled  only  am  by  three — 

Existence,  God,  Eternity. 
Oft  has  my  mind  groped  back  to  mist, 
With  the  potent  fact — I  do  exist. 

But  how?  say  how — I  but  one  answer  hear; 

And  it  I  scorn,  for  it  brings  no  cheer. 
Yet  the  impress  my  mem'ry  first  records — 
All,  boundless  all,  and  I,  were  once  the  Lord's. 

This  was  the  impress  which  I  first  received; 

This  was  the  impress  which  I  long  believed. 
You  saw  me  kneel  when  I  saw  him  descend 
From  that  low  throne,  whence  now  those  arms  ex- 
tend. 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  185 

Then  I  saw  God!     The  God  I  saw  at  first, 

Long,  long  ere  I  the  bubble,  Love,  had  burst. 
Why  did  I  so?     In  looking  round  and  round, 
I  gazed  on  vast  eternity,  and  found 

(Or  wondered  much  if  it  I  did  not  find) 

If  God  was  not  in  some  way  of  our  kind. 
I  gazed  on  vast  eternity  and  thought, 
If  back  and  back  my  way  I  wrought; 

If  further  back  I  went,  I'd  find  the  date 

Where  God  himself  evolved  or  was  create. 
Then  back  and  back  my  way  I  wrought, 
And  further  back  I  went,  but  found  it  not. 

Then  asked  I  God  if  he  would  be  so  kind 

To  lend  me  help  the  primal  truth  to  find. 
So  back  we  went,  and  back,  and  further  still — 
I  found  no  limit  to  the  Eternal  Will 

To  help — but  mine  'twas  not  to  grasp 

The  boundless  volume  of  the  past. 
The  Infinite  alone  can  see 
Eons  run  to  eternity. 

The  creature  from  his  natal  day 

Could  waste  eternity  away 
At  harking  back  to  what  is  past — 
The  steady  job  would  ever  last. 

For  ever  as  the  vista  clears, 

Of  eons  never  named  by  years, 
Other  eons  would  unfold, 
And  back  of  them  would  lie  untold 
The  record  of  eternity. 

And  so  would  ever  wear  away 

The  weary  research  of  each  day; 

On,  on  to  all  eternity. 
Existence!  only  mystery! 
Who  can  trace  thy  history? 


• 


1 86  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

Eternity,  whichever  way  we  look, 
Is  boundless.     Can  there  be  a  book 
Which  records  past  eternity?     Can  there  be  a  God 
Coeval  with  eternity?     God  only  knows. 

"He  never  did  create  a  mind 

But  here  it  could  its  limit  find. 
Oft  have  I  gazed  at  this  in  sate — 
It  marks  me  less  than  infinite. 

Oft  as  I  gazed  on  the  eternal  all — 

Oft  as  I  gazed,  felt  I  this  self  so  small ; 
Oft  as  I  dreamed,  I  felt  myself  a  part 
Of  this  vast  all,  this  masterpiece  of  art. 

Who  was  the  artist?    Wherefore  did  I  doubt? 

Who  first  conceived  the  plan  ?    Who  wrought  it  out  ? 
Whose  was  the  master  mind,  and  whose  the  arm  of 

power  ? 
Who  says  and  it  is  done,  in  years,  or  in  an  hour? 

Who  set  the  bounds  of  space?     Where  are  they? 
Oh,  where! 

Who  first  named  Eternity,  or  was  it  ever  there? 
Now  tell  me,  all  ye  demons  assembled  at  this  show ; 
Tell  me,  yes,  tell  me  if  you  can,  something  I  do  not  know. 

Yet  I  will  tell  you  something  you  never  must  forget ; 

These  thoughts  I  now  find  use  for — I'll  blind  Jeho- 
vah's pet — 

The  bias  in  my  favor,  I'll  run  them  up  against 
Some  of  this  kind  of  thinking,  extended  or  condensed. 

What  they  do  not  know,  will  they  believe? 

What  they  can  not  grasp,  will  they  receive? 
If  that  head  of  mud  can  not  grasp  the  plan, 
'Gainst  the  love  of  God  I'll  hold  the  man. 

I  God's  creature  long  have  been, 

Pondering  well  what  I  have  seen; 
And  even  when  I  did  adore, 
I  wondered  much  what  was  before. 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  187 

O  mystery!     Great  mystery! 

The  vast  unwritten  history. 
But  what  we  call  the  omnipresence 
Of  the  great  Essential  Essence 

Gives  no  trouble  to  me  now — 

Cursing,  yet  I  humbly  bow. 
For  I  feel  it,  feel  it  ever, 
Leave  that  Presence  can  I  never ; 

If  He  is  not  everywhere, 

Where'er  I  wander  He  is  there. 
This  makes  hell  of  every  place, 
Vacancy  I've  ceased  to  chase; 

But  now  accept  the  inevitable, 

And  play  my  part  of  being  devil. 

"And  has  it  come  to  this?     I  fain  had  thought 
Something  would  go  amiss,  and  come  to  naught. 

Oh,  had  I  but  made  Him  quail! 

Then  all  and  everything  did  fail — 
Back  to  negation  we  all  in  all  had  gone; 
None  would  exist  but  He  who  holds  the  throne. 
Only  a  cycle  in  vast  eternity — 

How  many  more  have  been  before, 

Jehovah  knows,  I  do  not. 
But  this  I  know :     The  devil's  part 
I'll  play  with  more  than  hellish  art. 

No  record  searcher  e'er  will  say 

That  he  my  part  could  better  play. 
And  the  part  I  will  play  now, 
Let  me  tell  you  why  and  how : 

When  upon  your  face  you  fell, 

Was  you  really  sleeping,  Beel? 
Or  did  you  hear  Him  ever  tell 
Of  how  He  would  fight  with  hell? 

Did  you  ever  hear  Him  say, 

His  love  divine  in  human  clay 


• 


1 88  DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER. 

Would  all  our  work  undo? 
Insult  to  me  and  you. 

No  longer  with  our  kind, 

Angels  of  equal  mind, 
Fight  we;  but  with  those  swine, 
Those  piglike  beasts  divine — 

These  are  our  foemen  now; 

Down  to  the  fight  we  bow. 

"But  listen,  ye  shades  of  hell! 
Listen  now,  and  I  will  tell 

You  a  thing  or  two, 

What  I  intend  to  do. 
Did  He  say  that  they  alone 
Must  tell  of  blood  that  will  atone? 

When  any  man  gets  so  high-strung 

He  would  for  Jesus  wag  his  tongue, 

I'll  gag  him. 

Of  all  else  they  may  freely  speak, 
But  of  the  Lowly  One,  so  meek, 
They  must  never. 

Even  manly  courage,  then, 

The  grit  of  ordinary  men, 

I  will  sever. 

Think  you  this  is  hard  to  do? 
Not  for  me — might  be  for  you. 

This  is  where  I  mean  to  fight, 

When  any  one  inclines  to  right; 
Him  I  will  manipulate, 
And  work  as  hard  as  bitter  Fate 

Permits.    Now,  there  is  no  use  to  deny 

It  will  take  effort.    We  must  try; 

Strain  every  nerve,  and  find  the  why 
We  do  not  win;  for  the  old  God  himself 
Is  now  on  record,  now  on  heaven's  shelf. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  189 

The  farce  is  written:     See  the  great  dead  I! 

A  guarantee  that  the  Most  High 
Will  be  in  battle  ever  nigh; 
Yet  telling  how  each  man  should  die 

To  self,  to  sloth,  to  sin — 

Even  crucified  with  Him; 
All  earthly  things  to  leave  and  soar, 
And  be  as  God  they  would  adore. 

So  they  themselves  must  sacrifice 

In  order  that  their  neighbor  rise. 
And  as  their  nature  He  did  take, 
So  now  His  nature  they  must  make 

Their  pattern — a  guide  to  them 

In  dealings  with  their  fellow  men. 
This  theory  will  make  men  puff; 
The  practice  will  be  awful  stuff; 
I've  known  those  cattle  long  enough. 

Sin  is  ingrained  in  every  heart; 

We  have  been  playing  well  our  part — 
It  will  take  crucifixion  sure 
To  cleanse  the  heart  from  all  impure; 

From  worshiping  of  self's  big  I, 

Which,  though  unseen,  still  towers  on  high. 
But  now  that  He  is  dead  and  gone, 
And  when  all  those  He  calls  His  own — 

When  they,  like  other  beasts,  are  dead, 
Could  we  prevent  this  matter's  spread? 
We  might  enlarge  the  gates  of  hell, 
And  rush  them  headlong  in  pell-mell. 
What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Beel?" 

Beelzebub  was  on  his  feet, 

And  said  he  scarce  could  keep  his  seat 

And  listen  to  such  talk. 

'Twas  time  that  all  should  fly  or  walk, 


..  •  *. 


DEATH  AND  THE  REPORTER. 

And  mind  their  business  well, 
Of  fitting  souls  for  hell. 
"But  how  about  that  plan 

I  heard  of  saving  man, 

In  which  the  Triune  God 
Each  one  took  part  the  load? 

Now  that  the  Son  is  gone, 

What  if  the  Spirit  come, 

He  worse  than  angels  all 
Will  answer  every  call, 

And  no  mistake  will  make, 

But  each  advantage  take." 

Said  Satan:   "That  is  so. 
I  realize  the  foe 

That  we  may  have  to  fight 

Is  clothed  with  every  might. 
If  power  it  was  alone 
That  could  for  sin  atone, 

We  surely  were  undone. 

But  look  at  the  dead  Son. 
As  long  as  it  please  Fate 
That  Justice  sit  in  state, 

Even  almighty  power 

Is  baffled  every  hour; 

And  baffled  you  shall  see, 
Even  by  me. 

No  living  God,  much  less  one  dead, 

By  what  is  either  done  or  said, 
Can  patch  hell  a  mile, 
Or  cleanse  what  does  defile; 

His  power  He  will  have  to  use, 

Or  rather  it  abuse — 

Love  can  not  do  it. 
Sheer  brute  force  He  must  try 
To  cleanse  the  human  sty; 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

And  this  same  force  on  me 

His  working  force  must  be; 
Then  victory  I  shall  roar, 
And  shout  for  evermore. 

But  listen,  ye  shades  of  night! 

It  will  take  years  for  light 

To  penetrate  earth's  gloom; 
It  will  not,  can  not  soon, 

If  we  but  do  our  part 

To  influence  the  heart. 

Just  think  of  all  the  schemes, 
Think  of  the  various  means, 

We  can  safely  employ 

To  baffle  and  annoy. 

There  is  still  the  brute  within — 
What  a  powerful  pull  for  sin  ; 

The  old  man  is  living  still — 

What  a  powerful  pull  for  ill. 
This  a  pull  is  all  the  time — 
A  never-ending  source  of  crime. 

This  is  something  ne'er  lets  up — 

To  holy  ones  a  bitter  cup ; 

To  careless  ones,  oh,  what  a  snare, 
For  carrion  bodies  and  despair! 

And  these  are  they  to  whom  He  gives 

Sole  power  to  spread  the  truth  that  lives! 
It  will  be  spread,  ha!  ha!  it  will, 
But  not  before  old  hell  we  fill 

With  human  souls. 

Yes,  as  time  rolls, 

Even  the  reason :  that  he  gives 
Into  their  hands  the  truth  that  lives, 

So  they  may  tell  the  world  around, 

Till  in  each  hut  the  news  is  found ; 


192  DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER. 

Make  them  His  messengers  of  peace, 
To  work  for  Him,  and  never  cease 
Till  all  the  world  should  know 
The  cleansing  blood  which  here  did  flow; 
Even  this  reason  I  will  use, 
Or  if  you  please,  I  will  abuse, 
So  that  they  will  make  a  muss, 
And  in  a  circle  reason  thus: 

'The  great,  good  God  to  us  has  given 
A  guarantee  that  insures  heaven; 
He  has  saved  our  souls  from  hell, 
Which  suits  us  all  extremely  well. 
He  also  can  all  others  save, 
And  will  if  they  themselves  behave. 
Some  say  He  does  on  us  depend 
To  tell  the  news — glad  tidings  send; 
That  only  thus  can  all  men  hear 
Truth,  which  alone  their  hearts  can  cheer. 
Yet  I  hardly  think  'tis  so, 
For  should  it  be,  truth  will  not  grow — 
Some  plan  there  is  we  do  not  know. 
God  can  not  think  I'm  such  a  fool, 
That  He  could  make  of  me  a  tool. 
Now  I  am  safe,  what  do  I  care 
How  other  men  escape  the  snare? 
Now  that  I  feel  I  am  all  right, 
Why  should  I  bother  with  the  fight? 
Sure,  God  must  have  some  other  plan 
To  send  the  truth  to  brother-man. 

If  he  has  not,  truth  will  not  spread 
Till  many  millions  more  are  dead.' 

"Thus  and  thus  will  saved  ones  talk; 
Or  speak  they  not,  thus  they  will  act. 
Think  you  this  is  hard  to  do? 
Not  for  me — might  be  for  you. 


1  il     AiMJJ     iJH.IV    K.tVr  UK  I  JiK. 


Know  you  not  each  crazy  fool 

Inclines  whichever  way  we  pull, 

And  ne'er  suspects  'tis  I  who  rule. 

Now,  when  from  darkness  one  may  flee, 
Should  his  eyes  open,  try  to  see; 

Then  see  that  self,  so  huge  and  vast, 

His  powers  engross  as  in  the  past; 

Ne'er  let  him  of  his  neighbor  think, 
Just  make  him  think  he's  on  the  brink 

Of  weal  or  woe  himself;  turn  all  on  self  — 

His  love  on  self,  his  fears  on  self; 

All,  all  on  self,  so  that  the  light  may  never  spread 
Till  many  millions  more  are  dead. 

How  will  you  do  it?     I  see  it  in  my  mind. 

'Tis  intuition  tells  me  how  !     Are  you  so  blind  ? 
Turn  his  eyes  inside  on  self.    He  sees  the  wretch, 

And  doubts  the  power  of  God  to  save. 
He  doubts,  he  wonders,  and  he  fears, 
But  never  works;  he  never  cheers 

The  hosts  of  heaven  with  ransomed  souls  ; 

And  as  time  forever  onward  rolls, 
Our  point  is  gained. 

"That  is  one  way  !  but  there  are  plans  and  plans, 
And  as  you  work,  your  power  expands. 

Another  way  you  still  may  try: 

Amuse  the  fools  until  they  die, 

With  self,  the  same  old  self,  the  self-same  self. 

Just  make  them  think  that,  as  their  God, 

When  he  on  earth  had  his  abode, 

Was  pure  and  holy,  absolutely  right, 
So  they  must  never  spread  the  light, 
Presume  to  join  him  in  the  fight, 

Till  they  are  sanctified  and  pure; 

Till  they  are  holy,  holy,  holy  sure. 
13 


•194  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Ah!  if  we  only  this  could  do, 

Hell  scarce  could  hold  her  rebel  crew. 
Why  not?     It  must  reasonable  appear 
That  those  who  worship  God  in  fear 

Should  have  clean  hands — be  pure  of  heart, 

Ere  any  try  the  truth  impart. 
Just  any  way  the  work  to  stop ; 
Anything  to  make  them  drop 

All  thoughts  of  saving  other  souls; 

Then  time,  which  ever,  ever  rolls, 
Will  do  the  rest.     All  will  be  ours, 
With  little  effort  of  the  powers 
Assembled  here. 

"Brace  up!     There  is  many  a  plan 
We  can  evolve  to  ruin  man. 

But  should  he  tell  them  "Go,"  and  I  suppose 

he  will, 

Shall  I  tell  them  "No" — or  only  wait  until— 
Until  what?     Anything,  everything — 
Build  temples  to  the  skies! 
Sermons  in  stone  shall  rise! 
Any  old  thing,  any  new  thing, 

Anything  but  "Go." 
Then  we  will  find  many  an  ism 
To  make  a  lively  schism — 
They  must  be  sure  they  are  right 
Before  they  spread  the  light; 
Besides,  they  must  attend 
To  those  who  do  offend 

By  not  seeing  as  they  do. 

But  Go — ah,  no!  not  if  I  know  it.    Leave  that  to  me. 
I'll  find  them  good  excuse;  and  centuries  shall 

roll 
Before  the  truth  is  told  to  every  human  soul. 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  IQ5 

Yes,  centuries  and  centuries,  until  the  truth  is  old, 
And  his  old  love  is  frozen — is  frozen  with  the  cold. 

Look  at  our  harvest  all  this  time; 
Millions  upon  millions  to  dwell  with  us  for  aye; 
His  love  can  ne'er  draw  such  a  crowd  as  we  will 
have  that  day, 

The  day  of  reckoning. 

Think  you  that  God  upon  the  tree 

Has  greater  influence  now  than  me? 

Well,  let  time  roll  on  and  we  shall  see. 
His  love  might  melt  a  heart  of  stone. 
Could  they  but  look  this  sight  upon ; 

But  let  time  roll,  and  many  a  soul 

Shall  never  know  his  blood  did  flow; 
And  many  a  soul 
Now  on  the  roll, 

The  truth  to  tell, 

Shall  ne'er  fight  hell. 
I  will  scare  them,  I  will  dare  them, 
I  will  soothe  them,  I  will  smooth  them, 

Until  they  actually  think, 

Although  his  Son  hang  till  he  stink, 
God  is  too  good  to  punish  sin 
In  those  whom  sloth  prevents  us  win. 
Rather  than  force  us  thus  to  make 
Such  a  disagreeable  break, 

He  will  suggest  and  undertake 

Some  other  way,  so  they  escape. 
Thus  and  thus  shall  saved  ones  think. 
While  we  complacently  will  wink. 

Think  you  this  is  hard  to  do? 

Not  for  me — might  be  for  you. 

"But  some  may  say,  'What  if  He  come. 
Equal  of  Father  and  of  Son — 


196  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

The  Holy  One,  should  He  come  here, 
How  will  we  fight,  with  God  so  near?' 

Ye  thick  heads,  of  such  maudlin  lore 

Have  not  I  told  you  oft  before, 

That  He  whom  holy  ones  adore 
Can  not  cooperate  with  men 
Where  self  is  high  as  angels'  ken; 

Can  not  and  will  not  live  where  sin 

Causes  men  to  laugh  and  demons  grin ; 

Will  not  remain  where  things  are  foul, 
And  secret  sins  make  mortals  howl? 

Think  you  the  battle  now  is  o'er — 

That  world  and  flesh  exist  no  more? 

Your  humble  servant's  work  is  o'er? 
Then  let  me  rest! 
All's  for  the  best! 

"But  now  I  swear  by  all  in  hell 

To  make  the  human  carcass  smell, 
Till  God  forever  leave  the  place, 
And  I  alone  shall  rule  the  race. 

Did  not  you  see  the  Nazarene 

In  humble  guise  his  Godhead  screen? 
Not  even  as  a  prince  of  men — 
He  toiled,  the  lowliest  of  them. 

Those  arms,  those  limbs,  that  noble  head, 

Were  used  to  earn  his  daily  bread; 
Thus  an  example  He  has  given 
Of  greatness  as  it  comes  from  heaven. 

But  I  will  show  you  very  soon 

Greatness  as  seen  beneath  the  moon. 

That  head  which  from  the  cross  hangs  down 
Was  offered  the  whole  world's  crown. 

See  the  thorns  that  were  his  choice; 

He  jeers  preferred  to  brazen  noise. 


DEATH    AND   THE    REPORTER.  197 

But  I  will  guarantee  we'll  find 

No  further  trouble  of  this  kind. 
When  his  successors  get  around, 
They  will  want  some  other  sound. 

The  crown  which  he  refused  to  wear 

They'll  take,  and  still  with  envy  stare. 
In  all  the  lands  where  we  have  been, 
One  crown  has  satisfied  the  king. 

He  who  succeeds  the  Nazarene, 

In  humbleness  will  oft  be  seen; 
Not  as  a  prince  is  among  men — 
That  were  as  nothing,  nothing,  when 

The  crowns  upon  his  head  I'll  pile, 

Until,  awe  struck,  there's  none  can  smile. 
I  will  place  him  on  Caesar's  throne. 
Crown  piled  on  crown,  so  lofty  grown ; 

Call  him  the  peer  of  common  kings; 

His  grooms  will  be  such  trifling  things; 
He  will  claim  to  act  for  God, 
Till  thrones  shall  tremble  at  his  nod. 

And  though  I  am  very  sure 

His  miracles  will  be  poor, 
Yet  if  they  are,  what  difference  that? 
He  will  excel  in  the  next  act. 

For  when  it  comes  to  pardoning  sin, 

Christ  never  could  compare  with  him. 
I  only  fear,  when  once  begun, 
This  may  be  slightly  overdone. 

It  must  be  all  with  mystery  bound, 

Or  it  may  be  run  into  the  ground. 
Run  over  sometimes  mud-heads  will, 
When  you  only  desire  to  fill. 

Is  there  a  limit  to  the  stuff 

They  hold  before  they  say  'enough'? 


198  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

Well,  you  may  think  so,  but  I  swear 
I  never  found  it,  if  'tis  there; 

And  as  no  miracles  attest, 

'Tis  said  as  easy  as  a  jest. 
And  how  this  business  may  expand, 
With  agents  spread  through  every  land. 

Yet  if  this  does  too  little  seem, 

He  may  surprise  the  Nazarene 
By  giving  a  permit  to  sin, 
Before  you  do  the  deed  begin. 

O  sin!     Ah,  sin!     Thou  crafty  foe! 

How  little  of  thee  do  mortals  know ! 
Could  they  but  stand  where  we  have  been, 
Would  they  thus  trifle  with  the  unseen? 

Could  they  but  see  what  they  might  be, 

Would  they  now  tarry  long  with  thee? 
But  this  insult  unto  Heaven 
Hurl  I  will,  sure  as  I  am  living. 

Does  His  omniscience  know  all  this? 

Does  He  foresee  such  cussedness? 
Is  there  some  power  beyond  His  sway, 
To  which  even  He  can  not  say  nay? 

Yet  sink  these  words  deep  in  your  brain, 

You  will  hear  from  them  again. 
You  think  that  this  is  hard  to  do; 
Not  for  me — might  be  for  you. 

And  think  you  that  the  Holy  One 

Will  live  on  earth  when  that  time  come? 
If  he  should,  'twill  show  how  strange 
A  God  can  act,  and  never  change. 

No!     He  will  haste  so  far  away, 

I'll  stamp  all  truth  from  human  clay. 
I  will  not  leave  a  single  one 
To  magnify  his  glorious  Son. 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  IQ9 

This  deed  that  now  your  eyes  behold, 

Shows  greatness  as  it  was  of  old ; 
Before  there  was  a  heaven  or  hell, 
Love  could  all  of  greatness  tell. 

But  I  will  show  in  time  to  come 

A  parody  on  greatness  run, 

Shaming  all  else  beneath  the  sun ; 
Claiming  salvation  by  that  blood — 
The  blood  that  trickled  from  their  God ; 

Showing  self-abnegation  sure, 

Unalloyed,  straight  and  pure. 
Imagination  ne'er  descried; 
Love,  the  Almighty  crucified ! 

What  held  those  hands  ?    What  held  those  feet  ? 

Bound  the  All-powerful  to  that  seat? 
What  but  that  love  of  self  was  less 
Than  love  of  those  he  came  to  bless? 

But  I  will  show  you  selfish  love — • 

Love  to  one's  self  all  else  above — • 
Even  in  those  who  take  his  name, 
Who  on  his  love  rest  all  their  claim; 

Who  on  his  love  to  all  mankind 

Their  only  hope  of  heaven  find. 
Yet  this  love  I  will  cause  them  use, 
Or,  if  you  please,  make  them  abuse. 

In  synagogues  all  furnished  fine 

They  listen  will  to  words  divine, 

And  think:    'How  nice  for  me  and  mine.' 
While  these  same  words  and  Christ's  heart-love 
Will  strive  in  vain  their  hearts  to  move, 

So  they  to  brother  men  may  show 

The  healing  stream  which  here  does  flow — 

'For  us  and  ours,  so  nice  you  know. 
As  for  the  heathen  round  about, 
We  pity  them,  beyond  a  doubt; 
But,  then,  that  is  not  our  lookout.' 


2OO  DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER. 

They  will  reason  thus  and  talk, 

Or  speak  they  not,  thus  will  they  act. 

Think  you  this  is  hard  to  do? 

Not  for  me — might  be  for  you. 

"Yet  I  will  show  you  worse  than  this: 
Things  that  would  make  us  devils  hiss. 

I  will  show  saints  redeemed  by  blood 

Of  him,  the  only  Son  of  God, 

Who  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand 
Holds  all  the  oceans,  seas  and  land; 

I  will  show  how  these  heirs  of  light, 

By  blood  redeemed  from  hell  and  night, 

Weigh  God's  own  blood  with  grains  of  sand- 
The  yellow  dust  that  forms  a  band 

'Round  many  souls;  yet  I  will  show, 

To  weigh  the  blood  which  here  did  flow, 
There  scarce  is  metal  base  enough 
To  make  a  coin  cheap  enough, 

So  men  may  measure  back  their  love. 

Will  not  this  grieve  the  Holy  Dove, 

And  make  him  leave  the  world  to  me, 
That  I  am  king  you  soon  shall  see? 

"Now,  really,  would  you  like  to  know 

How  I  will  do  this?  Is  it  so? 
As  we  in  unison  must  act, 
I'll  put  you  on  the  inside  track. 

'Tis  the  old  game — the  evolution 

Of  the  big  I  in  solution. 

Oh,  what  a  problem  is  to  solve 
Since  we  the  big  I  did  evolve! 

You  know  these  monkeys  grade  themselves 

As  pile  the  goods  upon  their  shelves. 

When  grows  their  pile  of  yellow  dust, 
Their  social  status  rise  it  must. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  2OI 

If  it  does  not  grow,  or  downward  hies, 
Their  social  status  does  not  rise. 

But  if  their  pile  takes  wings  and  flies, 

Their  social  status — well,  it  dies. 
If  style  they  carry  till  they  burst, 
Some  other  pile  them  carry  must, 
Or  soon  they  will  be  in  the  dust. 

If  this  is  true,  as  true  it  is, 

My  calculation  will  not  miss. 
Where  is  the  margin  for  the  Lord? 
When  social  status  does  absorb 

All  that  they  have  or  ever  shall — 

What  is  there  left  for  God  at  all? 
It  is  so  easy  to  go  up; 
Come  down,  that  is  the  bitter  cup. 

Step  clown  and  hear  your  neighbors  tell — 

Many  would  rather  go  to  hell. 
A  man's  position  in  this  life 
Finds  an  exponent  in  his  wife. 

Now  this  I  have  to  you  explained, 

So  you  never  may  be  blamed; 
When  you  with  me  cooperate, 
Have  your  ideas  up  to  date. 

But  cursed  be  the  loafing  lout 

Lets  one  of  Christ's  own  heart  thaw  out; 
They  all  must  beat  as  still  and  slow 
As  beats  that  heart  now  burst  with  woe; 

And  be  as  practically  dead 

As  his,  beneath  that  bowed  head, 

And  cold  as  any  piece  of  lead. 
So  if  you  think  this  game  worth  while, 
All  pull  together,  them  beguile, 
And  make  this  grizzly  face  to  smile. 

"Now  these  old  Jews  gave  ten  per  cent 
To  institutions  that  were  meant 


2O2  DEATH   AND   THE   REPORTER. 

To  dimly  point  how  He  should  come — 
The  great  Redeemer,  God's  own  Son; 

But  these  new  Jews,  with  all  their  light, 

Must  never  average  a  mite. 
In  vain,  in  vain  this  blood  shall  plead; 
In  vain  He  points  them  to  this  deed; 

I  will  each  effort  paralyze, 

Each  longing  choke  until  it  dies. 
Every  attempt  made  in  this  line — 
Leave  it  to  me,  the  work  is  mine; 

I  will  blast  them  to  the  root, 

So  they  never  can  yield  fruit. 
Think  of  those  greedy  men  whose  love  of  self 
Evolves  in  various  ways  their  love  of  pelf. 

Some  want  all  gold ;  some  want  to  own  the  earth  ; 

And  if  this  was  a  proper  place  for  mirth, 
Would  say  they  want  it  fenced  with  one  square  post, 
On  every  side  of  which  appears  the  ghost 

Of  self— 'Mine!     Mine!     Mine!' 

Even  that  is  not  enough — for  there  would  shine 
The  words,  'Keep  off !    Move  on !    Move  on !    Keep 

off!' 

On  we  have  seen  fools  move,  clear  off  the  planet; 
Hungry — cold — dead — so  bridle-wise,  yet  fools! 

Think  you  these  greedy  men  His  suffering  will 
change, 

So  they  will  give  a  tenth?    'Tis  not  within  the 

range 

Of  blood  to  do  it.    There's  nothing  but  an  asteroid 
In  the  gloom  of  hell  can  fill  the  void 

In  their  hearts.     No  service  out  of  them — 

These  are  the  safest  of  our  men. 

"But  if  some  heart  should  really  swell, 
And  get  a  streak  of  giving  well, 


DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER.  203 

How  do  they  know  but  I  will  try 

And  get  my  finger  in  the  pie. 
Surely,  we  easily  can  find 
One  of  the  complacent  kind, 

Ready  to  absorb  and  take 

Whatever  gift  they  choose  to  make. 
But  will  it  be  used  to  spread 
The  knowledge  that  their  God  is  dead, 

And  thus  a  fighting  chance  be  given 

For  men  to  reach  the  highest  heaven? 
Or  will  they  use  it  for  ease  and  mirth — 
The  softest  snap  in  all  the  earth? 

If  always  used  as  they  intend, 

I  will  have  my  ways  to  mend. 

"There  is  another  point  beside : 
You  know  this  world  is  very  wide; 

All  men  hither  can  not  come, 

So  very  far  away  are  some. 
Not  only  so;  when  time  rolls  by, 
And  Christ  takes  refuge  in  the  sky, 

Then  by  what  medium  shall  men  know 

That  ever  here  this  blood  did  flow — 
Words,  words,  words. 

And,  comrades,  I  can  clearly  show 

If  there  is  anything  I  know, 

'Tis  words,  words,  words; 
If  there  is  anything  of  mine 
In  which  I  equal  the  divine, 

'Tis  words,  words,  words. 

Ideas  in  the  absolute; 

Ideas  naked  to  the  root; 

In  trade  I  might  have  to  give  boot. 
But  clothe  them  anyway  you  can, 
For  intercourse  'twixt  man  and  man, 


• 


2O4  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

I  equal  then  the  great  I  Am 

In  words,  words,  words. 
Even  that  aggregation  made 
By  God  himself,  stamped,  the  Lord  said, 

Though  written  for  each  generation, 

Crudest  to  highest  civilization; 

Though  written  for  all  kinds  of  men, 
Those  who  soar  where  angels  ken, 

And  those  who  never  soar  at  all, 

As  scarce  above  the  brute  they  crawl; 
Written  to  stand  the  wear  of  time, 
And  though  the  words  in  heaven  chime, 
Still  they  are  words,  only  words, 

And  I  will  prove  in  every  age 

I  equal  am  in  every  stage 

Of  this  great  fight,  in  plan  or  might, 
In  words,  words,  words. 

Never  an  age  of  time  will  roll 

But  I  shall  nerve  some  human  soul 

To  scoff  and  giggle,  sneer  and  shout, 
And  turn  the  old  Book  inside  out, 
And  put  the  saints  of  God  to  rout 
With  words,  words,  words. 

And  if  again  they  gather  strength, 

Expose  my  sophistry  at  length, 

I  shall  work  up  some  other  mind, 
Brilliant  exponent  of  his  kind. 

Wise  he  will  look,  bland  he  will  smile; 

The  furthest  from  his  mind  is  guile — 
He  claims  to  sit  on  Reason's  throne, 
And  says,  'Ha!  ha!  God  there  is  none.' 

His  works  indorse  what  he  professes, 

One  thought  his  mind  and  will  possesses. 
Who  else  live  up  to  what  they  preach? 
Will  God's  saints  live  so  none  impeach? 


No,  none  but  mine  will  live  and  teach 
With  unison  in  act  and  speech; 

For  I  shall  rule  in  every  school 
Of  words,  words,  words. 

"And  the  words  that  written  are, 

They  will  receive  with  fearful  jar. 
Do  you  think  wise  men  will  fail 
To  give  the  laugh  to  Jonah's  whale? 

When  God  would  his  credentials  bring, 

And  prove  that  he  is  Nature's  King, 

My  science  men  will  sneer  and  shout, 
While  I  will  turn  all  roundabout, 

And  every  way  br.t  what  is  right, 

The  proofs  of  great  Jehovah's  might. 

Have  e'er  you  thought  in  time  to  come 
What  men  will  think  of  Joshua's  sun? 

How  it  stood  still,  that  ponderous  mass 

With  all  its  blazing,  flaming  gas — 
Stood  still  at  Joshua's  command, 
To  throw  more  light  upon  the  land. 

Then  when  they  figure  up  the  tons, 

Tons  upon  tons,  millions  of  tons 

Of  matter  stopped,  how  they  will  sneer — 
Will  laugh  and  sneer  until  the  tear 
Stands  in  their  eyes. 

And  did  the  sun  stand  still? 

Here  fools  can  have  their  fill. 
This  rolling  earth  to  stop! 
Easier  religion  drop. 

Did  He  fool  with  the  light? 

'Twas  easier  'fools'  to  write. 

You  know  these  microbes  on  this  ball 
Have  singular  thoughts  of  great  and  small. 

They  never  having  left  this  globe, 

Have  singular  thoughts  of  their  abode. 


'4. 


2OO  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Had  they  with  us  been  all  through  space, 
And  seen  the  weakest  of  our  race 

Hurl  atoms  round  as  if  in  fun, 

Whose  mass  to  earth  was  ten  to  one, 
And  many  millions  more; 

They  might  have  guessed  that  they  were  small, 

And  never  breathed  a  sneer  at  all. 

Now  they,  though  very  embryo  gods, 
Know  nothing  of  the  fearful  loads 
That  gravitation  swings. 

And  if  they  did,  I  doubt  if  they 

Would  ever  question,  ever  say, 

Or  would  do  anything  but  pray, 

When  great  Jehovah  brings 
Startling  credentials  from  his  throne, 
So  they  may  set  their  eyes  thereon, 

And  deigns  with  all  laws  at  his  beck, 

To  touch  this  microscopic  speck, 
The  earth. 

"You  see  our  foes  are  badly  mixed, 
With  souls  within  their  bodies  fixed, 

In  such  a  way  so  closely  linked, 

Fools  feel  convinced,  and  really  think 

The  flesh  is  all  of  man. 
But  weigh  the  man,  and  pound  for  pound 
Match  him  against  this  rolling  ground, 

Then  tell  him  God  its  mass  can  stop, 

He  will  his  whole  religion  drop, 

Rather  than  believe  the  tale. 
Why,  the  idea  in  his  mind 
Of  God  is  a  peculiar  kind. 

Eons  have  not  developed  it, 

Nor  ages  lent  their  strength  to  it; 

But  centuries  have  seen  its  growth — 
Years  are  foundation  for  his  oath. 


These  creatures  are  of  yesterday; 

Their  God  is  but  a  great  big  man; 

And  what  a  big  man  can  not  do, 

Jehovah  is  not  able  to. 

His  hands  are  tied  behind  his  back; 
For  should  he  ever  dare  to  act 

Other  than  a  big  man  would  do, 

Then — Ha!  ha!  ha!  it  is  not  true. 

When  men  find  out  this  world  is  round, 
Its  rolling  mass  their  minds  astound ; 

Then  say  by  God  it  could  be  stopped, 

If  Joshua  the  suggestion  dropped. 

Then  when  they  know  of  heat  and  force — 
A  little  know — not  all,  of  course, 

How  they  will  roar,  and  laugh,  and  gasp, 

And  think  religion  now  is  fast; 

For  we  will  have  to  play  our  part, 
And  play  upon  the  human  heart. 

We  will  the  heart  our  way  incline, 

And  gather  hay  while  the  sun  does  shine. 
But  when  they  know  of  matter  gross 
What  we  now  know  as  well  of  force; 

When  they  the  ether  have  surveyed, 

And  know  the  part  in  nature  played 
By  forces  now  that  have  no  fame, 
In  human  language  have  no  name; 

When  they  can  see  the  earth  and  sun 

Are  but  as  toys  to  the  heavenly  One, 
Not  near  so  large  unto  his  might 
As  play-balls  boys  toss  up  so  light; 

Of  heat  and  force  He  knew  it  all 

Eons  before  these  men  could  crawl; 

Will,  then,  these  boys  just  out  of  school 
Direct  him  Nature  how  to  rule? 


2O»  DEATH    AND  THE   REPORTER. 

Think  they  these  forces  there  were  put 
By  no  one?    Oh,  they  are  astute! 

And  I  am  with  them  all  the  time ; 

Their  words  you  scarce  can  tell  from  mine. 
Oh,  it  would  have  all  so  easy  teen, 
But  for  what  our  eyes  this  day  have  seen; 

We  could  have  got  them  every  one. 

But  when  I  look  upon  his  Son 
Stretched  on  that  tree,  it  makes  me  quail. 
What's  next?     Which  of  us  two  will  fail? 

God  seems  nerved  for  a  desperate  game ; 

Despair  has  bracing  power  the  same; 
And  we  will  give  him  tit  for  tat, 
Fight  in  his  face  or  at  his  back. 

And  many  a  lie  he  must  explode 

Ere  truth  on  earth  has  its  abode, 
And  many  are  the  souls  we'll  get 
To  revel  with  us  in  the  pit. 

If  he  brute  force  will  never  use, 

And  men  have  still  free  will  to  choose, 
His  love  is  matched  against  our  lies, 
To  make  the  earth  pure  as  the  skies. 

Who  will  win?     Who  suffer  loss? 

Look  on  me,  then  on  that  cross. 
Oh,  this  is  now  no  holiday; 
There  is  no  time  for  us  to  play; 

We  must  labor  and  must  toil, 

Strain  every  nerve  his  work  to  foil. 
There  still  is  left  the  Babel  tower, 
The  Flood,  the  Fall,  the  manna  shower. 

I  hear  them  laugh;  I  hear  them  sneer; 

You  artists,  your  creations  cheer; 
My  Ether!     I  hear  the  ages  laugh; 
And  I  see  his  Word  as  chaff. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  2OO, 

What  little  there  is  left  our  sire 

Will  do  no  good — he  is  a  liar; 
Or  we  will  prove  it  is  absurd 
To  think  these  writings  are  his  Word. 

Not  God  nor  any  one  else  can  write 

A  book  adapted  to  the  sight 
Of  the  men  of  a  single  age, 
But  I  could  tear  it  page  from  page. 

What,  then,  about  a  book  that  claims 

All  centuries,  and  even  then  disdains 
One  class  or  state  of  human  kind, 
But  would  appeal  to  every  mind? 

The  high,  the  low,  the  young,  the  old, 

Savage  and  cultured,  all  are  told 
The  same  old  stories — will  they  fit? 
Not  when  I  am  out  of  the  pit. 

I  will  have  them  raise  a  howl; 

Wise  men  will  giggle,  some  will  scowl ; 
And  even  those  who  are  redeemed, 
Will  feel  ashamed,  so  false  it  seemed. 

You  see  we  have  a  great  big  pull — 

Our  scholars  do  not  change,  our  school 
Has  similar  pupils  all  the  time, 
So  what  is  next  we  can  divine. 

'Tis  easy  for  us  to  head  them  off 

With  phantoms  new  and  make  them  scoff. 

"So  well  will  we  the  light  obscure, 
Their  right  to  think  some  will  abjure; 

And  we  will  have  others  think  for  them 

In  matters  of  religious  ken. 
That's  old.     I've  used  it  from  the  first. 
We  help  the  thinkers;  these  we  trust 

With  our  suggestions;  these  we  fill 

With  solemn  thoughts  from  head  to  tail; 
14 


210  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

With  cunning  thoughts,  with  placid  face, 
They  are  the  he-goats  of  the  race; 

They  go  before,  they  lead  the  way, 

We  guard  the  rear  so  none  can  stray. 
We  take  a  back  seat  when  they're  around, 
Their  wisdom  shall  the  earth  astound. 

That  they  are  right,  my  word  I  give; 

We  are  all  right,  long  as  they  live; 
And  they  shall  live  as  long  as  men 
Live  on  the  earth;  earth  is  the  pen. 

When  they  it  leave  and  soar  through  air, 

Some  other  thinkers  meet  them  there. 
Who  more  than  I  believe  in  Labor's  fine 
Division?     One  thing  only  all  the  time 

Is  right.     If  a  man  be  a  business  man, 

Let  him  tend  to  business  all  he  can, 
And  leave  to  me  and  specialists 
All  matters  of  religious  mists. 

We  will  see  him  through  all  right, 

So  he  never  need  take  fright. 
If  he  will  not  leave  it  unto  us, 
He'll  get  befogged  in  a  fearful  muss; 

It  takes  a  different  kind  of  brain 

For  matters  of  religious  strain. 
All  else  the  man  of  common  brand 
Can  dig  and  root  and  understand; 

But  when  we  want  a  first-class  tool, 

He  must  be  taught  in  a  special  school. 

There  we  will  teach  him  how  to  fool 
The  common  men,  the  clodhoppers, 
The  workingmen,  the  woodchoppers. 

What  right  have  these  to  think  ?    What  right  to 
breathe 

Thoughts  of  Jehovah?    Teach  them  to  leave 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  211 

All  such  things  to  me  and  mine, 
And  then  our  plan  will  work  out  fine. 

If  the  common  herd  e'er  go  to  school, 

We  must  herd  them  close  with  rigid  rule; 
They  must  never  think  what  we  think  about, 
Or  some  sneaking  fool  might  find  us  out, 

And  be  damned,  eternally  damned; 

Let  us  keep  such  folly  from  the  land. 
In  lands  where  I  have  all  the  rule 
Such  cattle  never  go  to  school. 
In  politics  who  has  the  pull? 

Perhaps  when  with  the  big  head  swelled, 

And  pride  has  all  their  reason  felled, 
These  priests  of  ours  should  ask  their  God 
To  share  with  them  the  weighty  load ; 

Their  plans  approve  and  to  indorse; 

Would  edicts  pass  for  them  to  enforce; 
And  petrify  the  human  race 
So  every  caste  may  keep  its  place; 

And  that  the  common  herd  for  aye 

May  be  the  herd  that  must  obey; 
He  will  give  them  just  brains  enough 
To  scrub  and  grind  and  to  act  rough. 

But  that  with  those  and  such  as  those, 

Our  noble  selves,  he  will  repose 

Wisdom  and  power. 
Who!  who  will  listen  to  that  prayer? 

The  Carpenter  who  hangs  in  air — 

These  are  workman's  hands  that  are  nailed  up 

there. 

If  there  are  favorites  below, 
If  God  does  any  favor  show, 

It  will  be  to  the  lowly,  the  sons  of  the  soil; 

He  has   favored  them  now  —  his   Son   shared 
their  toil. 


212  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER- 

When  the  talents  are  loaned  and  the  brains  given  out, 
Their  share  may  be  larger  than  any  about. 

Will  it  pay  them  to  educate  ?    There  is  the  rub. 
Not  when  I  can  help  it — all  efforts  I'll  snub. 
Yet  should  it  be  done,  they  might  be  the  men 
Who  would  harness  up  Nature  to  labor  for  them. 
As  the  old  Breath  of  Life  is  delivered  from  sin, 
'Twill  assert  o'er  all  Nature  its  just  right  to 

reign  ; 

And  the  class  that  He  came  in,  the  sons  of  toil, 
May  well  say  to  Nature,  'Deliver  the  spoil.' 
I  wonder  if  I  will  succeed, 
By  dint  of  time  and  ancient  creed, 
To  blunt  a  man  so  he  would  pray 
A  prayer  like  that.     What  do  you  say? 

You  think  with  them  now  their  God  did  live — 
A  view  he  did  of  true  greatness  give. 
He  gave  a  view  but  to  the  blind — 
Have  we  not  twisted  round  their  mind, 
So  they  true  greatness  ne'er  can  find? 

So  they  true  greatness  would  not  know, 
If  God  himself  should  to  them  show. 
'Tis  the  flash  and  the  flare  catch  the  eye  and  the  ear; 
Men  and  things  are  not  always  as  they  appear. 
Their  minds  are  stuffed  with  Caesar's  throne, 
And  emperors  who  climb  thereon; 
Temples  and  priests  of  impressive  show 
Make  such  greatness  as  they  know. 

When  greatness  as  He  showed  it  them 
Shall  be  the  true  ideal  of  men, 
Then  priests  and  emperors  will  be  found 
Restrained  with  men  of  mind  unsound; 
And  the  illusions  of  their  brain 
Doctors  will  class  as  grossly  insane. 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER.  213 

"But  it  will  take  years  and  years — 
At  least,  it  so  to  me  appears — 

Ere  the  blasted  minds  of  sinful  men 

Can  grasp  the  truths  of  angels'  ken; 
Ere  they  know  that  the  greatest  is  he  who  serves, 
That  gives  highest  thrill  to  human  nerves ; 

Ere  they  know  that  a  God  who  could  choose  his 
birth, 

Chose  the  highest  station  when  on  earth. 
Though  not  to  them  now  it  thus  appears, 
Yet  it  will,  it  must,  in  the  course  of  years ; 

That  is,  if  the  deed  which  we  now  behold 

Should  unto  all  ages  be  truly  told. 
But  mark  me,  ye  demons,  ye  shades  of  hell, 
There  is  thinking  to  do  ere  the  truth  they  tell. 

We  will  work  with  the  teachers  who  spread  the 
light,  _ 

And  the  light  will  grow  dim  and  be  put  out  of 

sight. 
We  will  work  with  the  hearers,  their  ears  shall  be 

stopped ; 
We  will  choke  unto  death  truth  unwittingly  dropped. 

These  cattle  are  our  willing  prey — 

Faithfully  serve  us  all  the  day. 

Almost  love  us,  I  might  say. 

"Oh,  were  it  not  for  that  dead  God 
I  would  bury  truth  beneath  the  sod. 

But  'tis  not  man,  'tis  the  I  Am 

We  fight,  and  do  the  best  we  can. 
To  hell  some  we'll  rush, 
While  some  we'll  push, 

Half  willing,  half  afraid  to  go; 

The  doubting  we  will  stow  below. 
The  fearful  are  ours,  and  every  one 
Who  will  not  trust  in  his  dead  Son 


214  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

Hanging  there!     Just  look  at  him. 
The  fearful  are  ours  is  what  I  said. 
Think  of  the  many  million  head 

Of  cowards  we  shall  meet  in  hell, 
Because  they  have  refused  to  swell 
The  number  on  the  other  side. 
Convinced  were  they  beyond  all  doubt, 
But  we  kept  them  from  starting  out, 
With  'Ha!  ha!     Look!  what  will  they  think?' 
And  ghosts  of  things  that  made  them  shrink. 
Too  much  afraid  to  heaven  win, 
We  will  have  to  take  them  in; 
Though  not  a  credit  to  the  pit, 
We  will  make  room  for  them  to  sit. 

"And  if  in  words  God  puts  the  plan, 
Just  now  fulfilled  for  saving  man ; 

Should  he  with  words  paint  every  scene 

Which  on  earth's  theater  have  been 
Enacted  by  the  Holy  One, 
In  drama  played  by  God's  own  Son; 

Should  he  with  words  and  sentences  express 

Thoughts  which  man's  words  can  hardly  dress, 
Then  how  these  words  I  study  will, 
How  every  thought  my  mind  shall  fill; 

Not  fill  for  three-score  years  and  ten, 

But  age  on  age  of  common  men; 

Study  hard  will  I,  and  strive  to  show 
Something  the  present  age  don't  know; 

And  then  get  some  one  with  a  head 

To  introduce  it  in  my  stead. 

"Now  I  will  tell  you  something  more — 
But  keep  it  dark  from  those  who  soar. 
Speak  low  I  must,  scarce  dare  I  tell 
Outside  a  conclave  met  in  hell — 


Some  plan  or  other  God  must  choose, 
Truth  to  preserve,  the  truth  to  prove, 
As  ages  run. 

Some  other  plan  will  surely  grow, 

So  that  all  men  the  truth  may  know. 

Why  should  we  not,  ye  dusky  shades, 
Then  run  a  parallel  from  Hades, 

To  any  plan  that  may  be  tried 

To  tell  the  Son  of  God  has  died? 
And  parallel  each  noble  deed, 
And  parallel  each  subtle  creed, 

Then  parallel  each  zealot's  fire, 

And  parallel  each  heart's  desire. 
Or  best  of  all,  perhaps  we  can, 
As  ages  run  of  dying  man, 

Switch  to  our  parallel  whate'er 

Historic  truth  is  left  to  cheer. 

Have  we  not  played  such  tricks  before, 
And  made  the  very  heavens  roar? 

Succeed  we  now,  'twill  bother  all 

To  tell  what  is  truth  on  this  round  ball. 

How  can  they  tell?     How  can  they  know, 
When  truth  and  lies  together  grow? 

"Yet  mark  me  well,  I  know  the  brute, 
And  ours  his  taste  will  better  suit. 

Whether  'tis  a  heaven  with  lots  of  wives 

Tickles  his  fancy  and  revives 
His  fagging  faith;  or  some  extreme 
Who,  mumbling  truth  with  lies  between, 

Makes  it  a  sin  to  look  on  woman's  face, 

And  in  outlandish  dress  denies  the  grace 

Of  God's  first  gift. 
Whichever  way  they  are  inclined, 
Ours  is  the  best  show  of  the  kind. 


2l6  DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER. 

We  will  have  what  suits  them  best, 

To  soothe  their  conscience  unto  rest. 
If  with  humility  they  try 
To  curb  the  egotistic  I, 

A  false  humility  will  strive 

To  keep  the  hidden  self  alive. 
But  oh,  Religion,  in  thy  name 
Deeds  will  be  done  the  blush  of  shame 

Will  not  cover,  nor  other  words  explain, 

But  that  'twas  I,  'twas  I 
Made  fools  and  demons  out  of  men — 
Used  as  my  tools  the  best  of  them. 

"But  should  the  light  spread,  and  the  brute 
Get  more  into  his  head  than  root, 

Then  as  the  light  illumes  I'll  try, 

As  dawn  just  breaks  upon  the  sky, 
With  science,  as  they  see  it  first, 
To  form  a  shade  the  truth  to  burst. 

And  as  each  shade  may  disappear 

Before  more  light,  if  light  should  cheer, 
Some  other  phantom  will  be  near 
To  fill  the  saints  of  God  with  fear; 

To  cause  my  men  to  scoff  and  laugh, 

And  make  God's  word  as  light  as  chaff. 

These  phantoms  with  God's  word  will  clash, 
And  all  its  brazen  pillars  smash ; 

Because  I  am  the  prince  of  words — 

These  darting,  scintillating  birds. 

But  some  one  may  get  bold  and  say: 
'This  is  the  phantom  of  to-day; 
The  other  phantoms,  where  are  they?' 

Can  God  write  for  all  generations? 

Can  words  suggest  the  right  sensations 

For  every  age,  and  suit  all  nations? 


DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

To  write  a  book  for  every  time, 
It  would  keep  busy  one  divine; 
Unless  that  I  should  act  the  fool, 
And  lose  my  grip  and  inside  pull. 
But  do  not  fear;  I  will  be  near, 
With  some  one  ready  to  appear 
With  words,  words,  words. 

"As  God  will  sure  his  truth  reveal, 

Just  as  sin  ceases  to  congeal — 

His  followers  I  will  have  to  fix 
So  they  together  can  not  mix; 

So  they  together  can  not  act ; 

But  each  will  think  the  pond'rous  fact, 
The  ism  of  his  weighty  brain — 
However  much  it  others  pain — 

Is  of  much  greater  value  far 

Than  spreading  light  upon  that  star. 
Can  the  muddled  brain  of  man 
Grasp  the  fullness  of  the  plan? 

Can  he  grasp  in  three-score  years 

The  secrets  of  eternity? 

Why,  then,  should  we  be  so  slow — 
Eons  to  live,  yet  not  all  know? 

We  gave  it  up — we  can  not  grasp 

The  fullness  of  the  hoary  past. 

But  man,  weak  man,  he  knows  it  all, 
Though  but  a  microbe  on  a  ball — 
Say,  'Well  done,  devil.' 

"But  should  the  light  of  heaven 
Cheer  the  little  leaven; 

Cheer  this  newly-planted  love 
Transplanted  from  above, 

Our  ancient  home; 
Should  this  love  increase  and  grow, 
And  make  the  earth  as  pure  as  snow, 


. 


2l8  DEATH   AND  THE   REPORTER. 

And  every  one  should  come  to  know 
That  it  was  the  little  leaven 
Once  handed  down  from  heaven 

That  made  it  so; 

And  these  facts  should  they  array — 
What  think  you  I  would  say? 

Think  you  I  would  give  up, 

And  drink  a  bitter  cup? 
I,  who  can  use  each  word, 
Would  grin,  and  say  'Absurd!' 

And  words  on  words  array, 

And  make  it  clear  as  day — 

What?     'Tis  not  safe  to  say, 
For  I  an  artist  am 
In  words,  words,  words. 

"But  do  you  think  the  life  of  those 
Whom  we  will  have  to  call  our  foes, 

Will  shine  so  bright  that  it  will  show 
A  contrast,  so  that  all  may  know 
Who  are  for  God  and  who  for  us? 
You  just  let  me  attend  that  muss. 
I  will  mix  them  so  none  can  tell 
Who  is  ours;  or,  doing  well, 
Who  for  heaven,  and  who  for  hell. 
They  will  be  few  and  far  between, 
Who  do  not  wish  some  act  to  screen. 

Should  there  be  some,  'twill  vex  me  not, 
For  I  possess  a  smirching  pot; 
And  I  will  have  some  artists,  too, 
Who  paint  the  false  as  if  'twere  true — 
Artists  who  have  both  skill  and  time 
To  daub  the  pure  with  any  crime, 
Or  villify  with  filthy  slime; 
Artists  who  have  skill  and  wit 
To  tone  their  stuff  so  it  will  stick; 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  219 

And  stick  it  will  so  none  may  know 
It  from  my  smirching  pot  did  flow. 

For  should  a  jury  criticise, 

A  jury  I  will  have  advise 

My  artists;  yes,  it  will  take  brains 
To  use  my  pot  of  caustic  stains; 

But  I  have  got  them.     You  will  find 

No  men  with  deeper  grasp  of  mind, 

No  men  more  famed  in  jurists'  skill, 
Than  those  who  do  the  places  fill 

Of  daubers,  artists  of  my  head, 

Who  smear  the  living  and  the  dead. 
'Tis  sometimes  easier  to  put  on 
The  daubing  when  the  life  is  gone. 

This  you  know  is  not  hard  to  do; 

'Twill  bother  neither  me  nor  you. 
Are  we  not  experts  all 

In  words,  words,  words? 

"But  I  have  said,  God  can  not  put 
Into  the  language  of  the  brute 

Thoughts  which  my  scrutiny  will  bear; 
Stupendous  thoughts  like  ours  would  tear 

And  burst  all  human  words. 
God  can  not  prove  he  does  exist; 
Words  would  but  add  unto  the  mist, 

If  ever  he  should  try. 
He  says  that  he  is  the  I  Am, 
Grasp  that,  O  unbelieving  man, 

The  language  of  the  sky. 
But  long  as  I  have  get  the  pull 
Upon  the  inside  of  the  fool, 

He  will  answer  Wisdom's  cry 
By  whimpering  'how'  or  'why.' 
'Tis  the  heart  that  we  must  rule, 
For  'tis  the  heart  that  makes  the  fool. 


220  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Words  never  either  can  improve; 

Too  short  the  time  betwixt  the  move 

Of  birth  and  death; 
Too  short  the  time  of  life, 
Too  short  the  wordy  strife 

That  men  call  breath. 

They  come,  they  gleam,  they  go, 

Just  like  a  flake  of  snow. 
Shall  three-score  years  and  ten, 
Or  age  of  common  men, 

Form  base  to  measure  heaven? 

What  angle  would  be  given? 
No;  words  will  never,  never  bear 
The  truths  we  with  the  angels  share. 

Should  they  from  age  to  age 

Draw  wisdom  from  each  sage, 
Each  knowing  what  the  former  taught, 
Let  knowledge  grow;  yet,  what  of  that? 

Can  ever  words  enthrall 

The  thoughts  we  here  have  all? 
For  always,  even  at  their  best, 
They  nothing  knew — they  only  guessed. 

And  then  their  very  wisest  men — 

Will  they  care  for  religious  ken? 
Or,  in  their  wisdom,  will  they  place 
It  as  a  foible  of  the  race; 

And  all  such  classify  and  label 

As  feelings  mixed  with  ancient  fable? 
And  which,  no  doubt,  had  done  some  good 
Although  it  must  be  understood, 

All  such  could  easily  be  explained, 

Though  God  and  I  be  never  named. 
That's  right — I  say  that  is  right. 

"Now  I  will  tell  you  of  a  thought 
That  through  my  mind  has  often  wrought: 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  221 

Jehovah  will  place  the  wisest  men 

No  nearer  truth  than  the  lowest  of  them; 

At  least,  he  will  expect  of  me 

That  I  place  them  so  they  will  not  see. 
I  think  I  am  old  enough  to  know 
How  to  complete  that  work  below. 

How  does  fifty  years  with  my  age  compare? 

If  there  is  aught  in  years,  I  have  my  share. 

Millions — yes,  billions — yet,  all  I  must  keep — 
Is  a  trifling  baby,  who  scarcely  can  creep; 
A  baby  in  years,  but  amusingly  deep. 

Has  it  come  to  this  ?     Am  I  so  small  ? 

Fooling  with  microbes !     Is  this  all  ? 
Is  this  my  grand  final? 

Never!  never!     I  swear. 
Can  my  heart  cease  to  hate? 
Hate,  my  heart  is  thy  lair. 

Like  one  drop  of  water  teeming  with  life, 

With  its  microbes  by  millions  forever  at  strife; 
Should  that  drop  dry  up  or  evaporate, 
Who  cares?     Whom  does  it  exasperate? 

This  earth  will  dry  up,  I  know  it;  it  must; 

Then  when  all  the  microbe  millions  are  dust, 

I'll  be  out  of  a  job.     Ah !     What  will  be  then, 
When  there  is  no  one  to  fool,  not  even  these 
men? 

Is  this  our  grand  final?     Only  one  little  ball? 

There  are  millions  of  planets — is  this  one  our  all? 
The  whole  thing  is  a  farce,  I  will  leave  it  to  you  ; 
Have  we  had  any  chance  to  show  what  we 
can  do? 

Had  this  virus  spread  to  the  planets  and  stars, 

And  not  been  restrained  by  ethereal  bars, 

Then  we  might  have  shown  in  a  decent  way 
The  prowess  of  sin,  and  made  such  a  display 


222  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

That  the  records  of  heaven  would  not  be  ashamed, 
As  they  will  when  this  microbe  business  is  named. 
I  have  little  doubt,  were  it  not  for  sin, 
Many  a  planet  had  readily  taken  in 
The  surplus,  which  this  beastlike  God 
Had  reared  in  this  his  first  abode; 

And  probably  the  stars  would  swarm 
With  men,  had  I  not  done  them  harm. 
And  had  they  lived  on  every  ball, 
Their  number  would  not  be  so  small; 
But  would  the  sum  of  all  the  living 
Ever  equal  the  third  of  heaven? 

"Was  this  God's  plan?    It  must  have  been; 
But  you  know  the  changes  we  have  seen. 

No  emigrants  have  left  the  earth, 

With  song  and  shout  of  joy  and  mirth; 
No  stellar  strand  has  welcomed  men, 
And  the  virus  of  sin  along  with  them. 

I  knew  all  the  time  it  was  no  use, 

So  I  never  tried;  'twould  have  been  the  abuse 
Of  time  to  have  thought  of  such  a  thing — 
It  takes  more  than  faith  to  give  them  wing. 

What  effect  would  it  had,  had  I  dared  to  try? 

Could  I  steal  a  permit  from  on  high? 
When  we  do  all  we  can,  all  we  can  do 
Is  just  what  we  are  now  permitted  to. 

For  might  is  right — might  is  always  right. 

That's  what  I  said. 

To  make  me  feel  small,  the  whole  thing  is  arranged ; 
Had  the  Devil  a  chance,  it  might  have  been  changed. 

So  with  carnage  and  crime  we  have  kept  them 
down, 

And  there  still  is  room  on  earth's  old  crown. 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  223 

"And  now  what  is  next?    What  is  next,  do  you  say? 

But  my  mind  wanders  far,  far  away; 
Into  outer  space  have  I  taken  flight, 
And  tried  to  explore  the  gloom  of  the  night, 

To  see  what  is  beyond.     I  had  to  come  back, 

For  beyond  and  beyond  there  was  nothing,  in  fact; 
That  is,  'twas  beyond  all  the  power  of  my  might 
To  explore  the  gross  darkness  forever  in  sight. 

But  there  may  be  beyond,  where  Jehovah  still  reigns, 

And  another  heaven  and  hell  maintains. 

I  would  give  up  my  crown  as  the  prince  of  evil, 
For  a  five  minutes'  talk  with  that  other  Devil. 

"But  with  all  his  might — how  it  makes  me  grin, 
And  gives  me  a  singular  feeling  within — 

When  I  think  we  have  men  so  befogged  in  mist, 
God  can  not  prove  to  them  that  he  does  exist. 
What  is  might,  when  it  comes  to  a  matter  of  brain? 
We  have  muddled  their  heads  so  never  again 
Can  men  see  God  by  pure  Reason  alone, 
Or  grasp  the  full  plan  how  he  does  atone. 
Can  man  tell  what  is  truth?    Can  he  tell  what  are  lies, 
When  his  addled  brain  muddles  our  latest  surprise? 
He  will  swallow  it  down,  it  matters  not 
That  the  concept  contains  no  traces  of  thought. 
He  will  swear  not  to  think,  but  believe  what's  been  said 
By  our  representatives,  living  or  dead. 

We  will  have  our  followers  here  to  expound 
Words  that  both  heaven  and  hell  would  astound. 
For  would  you  believe — I  can  take  an  ass, 
Just  from  the  pasture  and  fresh  from  the  grass, 
And  with  proper  vestments,  or  even  without, 

A  preacher  of  I  will  turn  him  out ; 

And  that  donkey's  bray  will  be  somebody's  creed — 
Their  solace  of  heart  and  incentive  to  deed. 


224  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

Do  you  say,  'They  could  not  understand  a  bray'? 

Who  said  they  would  ?    Religion  is  not  run  that  way. 
Not  a  soul  of  them  knows.     Sin  hath  so  muddled  their 

brain, 
That  even  pure  truth  to  them  seems  insane. 

Could  they  understand,  'twould  be  all  off  with  us; 

We  can  easily  keep  their  heads  in  a  muss. 
I  can  take  a  jackass,  or  even  a  jenny — 
It  matters  not  which,  not  the  toss  of  a  penny — 

And  have  them — (oh,  does  a  jenny  bray?) 

Speak  quick,  some  fellow,  some  one  say — 
Sit  down.     It  matters  not.     By  my  wisdom's  might, 
Whatever  the  noise,  it  will  be  all  right. 

'Twill  be  some  one's  creed;  the  less  reason  it  shows, 

But  reflects  the  acumen  of  one  who  knows. 
'Twill  take  brains,  you  know,  to  belong  to  our  cult. 
Not  a  matter  of  babies,  but  for  the  adult — 

For  mature  minds — for  those  who  can  think; 

With  the  lights  of  my  cranium  I'll  give  them  the 
wink. 

"Yes,  I  have  said  God  can  not  prove — 
Though  without  him  none  ever  can  move — 
That  he  exists,  by  words  to  man, 
Much  less  all  of  Salvation's  plan. 
Not  only  so;  strange  creatures  they — 
Those  busy  fireflies  of  a  day — 

Can  not  prove  beyond  a  doubt 
That  they  themselves  exist. 
Words  always  other  words  can  rout 

In  themes  like  this. 
Not  only  so;  the  crazy  fools 
Have  been  so  long  our  abject  tools, 
Some  of  them  absolutely  will 
Consider  now  themselves  but  nil, 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  22$ 

Or  some  part  of  a  general  mass. 
But  how  it  ever  came  to  pass, 

They  know  not,  and  but  little  care; 

The  masses  their  religion  share. 
Our  masterpieces  these  are,  sure — 
Fools  wed  to  folly,  straight  and  pure. 

They  careless  trade  their  souls  away 

For  passing  pleasures  of  a  day. 
What  is  His  sorrow  unto  them? 
These  careless,  pleasure-loving  men! 

Have  they  not  troubles  of  their  own? 

Why,  then,  should  they  e'er  gaze  upon 

That  bruised  form  a-hanging  there? 
If  they  were  told,  could  they  conceive 
From  what  He  would  their  souls  relieve? 

Some  will  the  situation  grasp, 

Weigh  everything;  and  yet  so  fast 
Will  be  my  grip,  they  will  decide 
With  us  forever  to  abide. 

"Now  I  will  tell  you  of  a  thing 
That  should  a  thrill  of  pleasure  bring; 

It  counts  for  us  a  double  shot, 

And  comes  from  neither  plan  nor  plot; 
Yet  it  will  swell  our  aggregate, 
When  we  take  stock  in  some  far-off  date; 

God  only  gets  his  so-called  friends — 

When  these  are  in,  his  count  then  ends; 
While  we  take  in  both  friend  and  foe — 
We  are  more  liberal  below. 

There's  nothing  narrow  about  us; 

About  trifles  who  would  fuss? 
Let  them  come — we  will  embrace 
With  warm  welcome — give  them  place. 

To  witness  heaven  and  hell  I  call; 

None  e'er  can  say  that  I  am  small. 
15 


226  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Each  phantom  dream  and  fancy  faith — 

All  orthodox — even  "the  Lord  saith" — 

Are  welcome. 

No  doubt  some  of  you  have  seen 
A  butcher  slowly  driving  in 

The  fatted  steers  into  the  pen, 

Where  he  would  soon  make  meat  of  them; 
And  how  reluctantly  they  went, 
As  deep  foreboding  his  intent, 

Until  some  steer,  trained  them  to  lead, 

Led  them  where  he  could  do  the  deed. 

Think  you  that  man,  with  heart  of  steel, 
Would  spare  that  ox,  or  would  he  feel 

One  qualm  of  mercy  when  his  pet 

In  course  of  time  its  own  fate  met? 

So  'tis  with  us.     There's  many  a  man 
Will  work  for  us,  hard  as  he  can; 

Will  work,  and  toil,  and  plan,  and  sweat, 

Like  a  demon  from  the  pit. 

Some  there  will  be,  not  quite  so  rash, 
Who  never  let  a  good  chance  pass 

To  pull  for  us,  by  word  or  deed, 

Our  glorious  cause  to  onward  speed. 
Some  there  will  be,  more  quiet  yet, 
Who  still  will  help  along  a  bit. 

For  all  such  cattle  we'll  make  room — 

Be  waiting  for  them  at  the  tomb. 

We'll  crash  the  ax  into  their  brain — 
Did  they  delight  in  causing  pain? 

Surely  at  this  they  could  not  kick; 

They  have  done  worse,  and  called  it  wit. 
You  know  when  once  that  stn 
Their  brute  part  entered  in, 

It  made  them  every  one 

Where  common  blood  does  run, 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  227 

Lunatic  more  or  less; 

Some  mild,  some  in  a  mess ; 
But  all  must  have  the  taint, 
Each  sinner  and  each  saint; 

And  what  view  they  may  take, 

What  disposition  make, 
When  all  the  facts  have  been 
Submitted,  will  be  seen. 

I  would  not  risk  a  guess 

What  they  will  do,  much  less 
Predict.     One  thing  is  sure: 
No  brain  in  them  is  pure; 

All  muddled,  mussed,  unclean, 

Lunatic,  loose,  gangrene; 
All  crippled  in  the  head — 
Hastening  to  join  the  dead. 

Yes ;  dead  in  part  at  best, 

Awaiting  the  inquest. 
When  I  with  self  assimilate, 
When  'tis  I  who  instigate, 

These  crazy  youth 

Would  prune  the  very  universe  of  God 
To  suit  their  caliber, 

And  call  that  truth. 

"Just  think!  these  are  the  ones 
Whom  God  now  calls  his  sons. 

Just  think!  that  these  are  they 

Who  are  matched  'gainst  us  to-day. 
These  are  they  whom  we  must  fight. 
Well,  hell  is  certainly  all  right; 

We  will  pack  the  abyss  tightly 

With  myriads  of  the  mighty. 
But  oh,  the  insult  given — 
Damning  insult  from  heaven — 


228  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

To  match  us  with  those  things 

Cruel  agony  it  brings. 
I  who,  next  the  I  Am, 
Can  earth  and  heaven  scan — 

But,  never  mind,  I  brought  him  down; 

See  what  is  left — the  rest  is  flown. 
Yet  I  will  ever  nurse  despair, 
And  chance  to  meet  him  soon  elsewhere. 

"Now,  when  a  careless  hand  into  the  ocean  deep 
Tosses  a  pebble,  do  not  the  wavelets  creep 

To  every  shore?    Does  there  the  influence  stop? 

Or  does  the  thoughtless  act  which  made  the  pebble  drop 
Affect  the  ether  to  the  furthest  star — 
Infinitesimally  the  whole  creation  jar? 

Now  this  I  thought  eons  long  ago, 

And  pondered  oft — still  half  believe  'tis  so: 

Should  I  into  the  ocean  of  God's  love  now  cast 
Sin's  mountain,  would  not  the  influence  last 

Till  every  spirit  felt  the  fearful  chill, 

And  love  (all-powerful  once),  would  vanish  and  be  nil? 
Sure    'twas    a    poison    should    have    wrought    and 

wrought — 
However  slight  the  attack,  there  was  no  antidote. 

I  pondered  thus  and  thought:    How  could  I  ever  dream 

To  see  my  God  nailed  to  a  wooden  beam  ? 

See  you  the  point?    What  avails  wisdom  now? 
'Tis  death  alone  can  crown  the  victor's  brow. 

O  death!  death!    Now  what  is  left  for  me? 

Nothing;  but  that  all  may  see 

That  I  next  to  Jehovah  am  in  might, 
Wisdom,  and  will  power,  never  speaking  right. 

Will  any  say  'twas  weakness,  carelessness  or  sloth 

That  made  me  lose — but  that  for  both 

God  and  me,  'twas  fight  unto  the  death? 


DEATH   AND   THE  REPORTER.  22Q 

This  was  the  only  way  he  could  the  victory  win; 

'Twas  only  thus  that  he  could  conquer  sin. 
Who  dreamed  his  love  had  such  inventive  power? 
Who  dreamed  the  sight  we  see  this  hour? 

Again  is  love  all-powerful,  even  though  the  arm 

Of  God  stood  not  behind  its  potent  charm. 

"What  think  I  now? 
These  are  battle  lines  that  crease  my  brow. 

Should  light  still  onward  spread, 

Illume  the  crazy  head; 
Lightning  obey  their  call, 
And  carry  words  to  all; 

And  as  each  morning  breaks, 

Each  one  the  truth  partakes; 
And  as  the  rolling  ball 
Brings  night  and  rest  to  all; 

Yet,  on  the  other  side, 

Men  active  deeds  bestride; 
If  words  on  words  should  rush 
Into  the  shady  hush, 

Into  the  silent  night, 

With  speed  as  swift  as  light; 
Should  human  words  convey 
The  experience  of  each  day, 

So  that  when  men  awake, 

They  of  the  truth  can  take; 
So  they  the  words  can  read, 
Describing  every  deed 

Which  on  the  earth  is  done, 

When  lighted  by  the  sun; 
Think  you  that  I  would  give  in — 
With  folded  arms  see  truth  win? 

No;  I  would  see  that  every  word 

Was  by  a  proper  censor  curbed; 


230  DEATH    AND   THE   REPORTER. 

None  flashed  so  quick,  but  I  could  tell 
If  it  might  suit  my  purpose  well; 

And  every  truth  would  surely  be 

Garbled  until  it  suited  me. 
And  know  you  not  that  men  may  then 
Say  sin  no  evil  brought  to  them; 

That  misery  and  sin  were  not, 

Nor  ever  had  been  such  a  blot 

On  earth's  fair  face; 
Or  if  it  had,  'twas  soon  explained 
Without  your  servant  being  named? 

Even  this  specimen  of  woe, 

With  his  arms  now  stretched  out  so, 
Will  as  the  centuries  roll  on, 
And  time  a  hazy  mist  has  thrown 
Around  this  deed; 

And  when  the  time  appears  to  .come, 

That  the  Spirit  and  the  Son 
The  darkness  chase  from  off  the  globe, 
And  science  and  light  have  their  abode 

With  men,  then  you  may  hear  them  laughing 
say, 

Flushed  with  the  pleasures  of  the  day, 
That  this  that  now  your  eyes  behold, 
Even  as  a  myth  was  growing  old; 

That  the  impression  it  had  made 

Had  been  for  good — perhaps  did  aid 
The  evolving  power  of  time  or  some  such  stuff 
In  making  this  earth  good  enough 
For  men  to  live. 

If  the  myth  story  will  not  do, 

Then  let  them  say  that  Christ  outgrew 

The  times  in  which  he  lived; 
That  he  a  pre-developed  man 
Had  lived;  but  as  the  ages  ran, 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  231 

The  time  had  come  when  they  could  see 

He  had  but  lived  as  live  should  he, 
And  that  his  death,  howe'er  described, 
Was  but  a  romantic  suicide. 

What  care  I,  then?    What  care  I  now? 

So  not  to  Him  the  knee  they  bow ; 
If  they  will  not  bow  to  Him 
Whose  they  are,  in  the  reckoning. 

I  this  whole  world  before  Him  spread; 

Offered  to  make  of  Him  its  head ; 
No  cross  nor  shame  would  then  He  see — 
Only  He  must  bow  to  me. 

This  I  had  the  gall  to  ask; 

Nothing  like  trying,  though  a  task. 
Had  I  this  morning  tried  that  game, 
When  he  was  suffering  with  shame, 

What  chance  had  I  or  ever  had 

To  tempt  a  God  do  what  is  bad? 
But  'tis  so  different  with  man; 
He  will  grasp  everything  he  can; 

He  will  take  Christ,  the  world,  and  me. 

Will  he?     Well,  you  wait  and  see. 
Surely  either  one  would  be 
Enough  for  such  as  he. 

But  all  such  crowds  are  ours  by  right, 

And  we  will  pack  them  out  of  sight. 

"But  should  the  truth  still  spread, 
Awake  the  living  dead, 

In  part,  at  least,  and  find 

That  even  in  their  mind 
They  have  from  slight  disease 
A  method  of  release — 

By  will  power,  or  some  such; 

Or  even  should  they  rush 


Into  the  presence  of  the  King, 

And  real  relief  by  faith  should  bring; 

Or  should  the  power  partly  return, 

Preserved  them  ere  I  made  them  mourn, 
t)o  you  believe  that  would  be  bad, 
And  that  before  his  cross  they  glad 
Would  kneel? 

Just  watch  me  if  they  do, 

And  you  will  find  'tis  true — 
All  else  they  may  do — anything — 
But  not  to  kneel  before  their  King. 

That  is  where  I  draw  the  line; 

And  they  are  willing  slaves  of  mine. 
With  placid  face  I  will  array 
Words  to  make  it  clear  as  day. 

What?     I  care  not  what,  as  long  as  they 

Kneel  not  before  that  cross. 

"But  should  the  light  still  spread, 
Awake  the  living  dead, 

And  wisdom  thus  enhance, 

And  science  thus  advance, 
Until  the  curse  of  sin, 
Lost  Eden's  medicine — 

The  toil  for  daily  bread — 

Should  pleasure  yield  instead; 
Should  wisdom  grow  apace, 
Until  not  one  of  all  the  race 

Should  have  to  toil  at  all 

To  live  upon  this  ball; 
Think  you,  then,  that  I  would  leave, 
And  from  all  curse  grant  them  reprieve? 

No;  I  would  see  that  none  should  live 

Who  will  not  to  me  true  homage  give ; 
That  none  should  either  buy  or  sell, 
Who  will  not  of  me  most  cheerfully  tell. 


Oh,  had  it  not  been  that  the  curse 

Of  toil  kept  men  from  growing  worse, 
Long  time  ago  they  would  have  been 
Wiped  from  the  earth,  and  would  be  seen 

Only  in  hell.     But  never  mind; 

If  God  to  that  way  is  inclined — 
And  he  must  be,  if  he  would  demonstrate 
The  laws  which  govern  love  and  hate — 

He  must  bring  all  round  again, 

As  good  as  when  he  first  made  men. 
When  toil  is  all  removed  from  them, 
A  critical  time  it  will  be  then; 

'Twill  be  the  same  as  'twas  at  first, 

When  I  the  whole  arrangement  burst. 
But  oh,  between  that  time  and  now 
Millions  on  millions  we  shall  stow 
Into  hell's  gorge — 

What  crowds  on  crowds  of  souls, 

To  live  as  long  as  time  rolls, 

Hell  will  absorb! 
Awake!  plot!  scheme  and  fight! 
Be  at   it  day  and  night! 

Never  let  up! 

Think  what  a  cup 

Those  who  fail  must  win; 
For  our  opponent  now 
Is  none  but  God;  then  how, 

If  we  succeed  at  all, 

And  many  souls  enthrall, 
We  must  labor — we  must  try — 
Never,  never  will  we  say  die. 

"But  things  are  not  as  they  used  to  be  a  million  years  ago, 
Or  ten  million  times  ten  million  years.    And  why  is  it  so? 


234  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Why  are  we  here?    Why  did  I  call  this  conclave? 
Why? 

Why  did  I  summon  you?    Was  it  not  I? 

See  that  dead  God!     Think  you  'twas  he? 
Well,  if  you  here  have  nothing  learned, 
Has  there  anything  you  harmed? 

But  take  this  thought  along  with  you — 

It  may  succeed  when  things  look  blue — 

Chances  to  win  are  very  few, 
When  men  are  good  as  they  can  be. 
Think  of  that  forbidden  tree, 

And  Adam  spotless  without  sin, 

How  a  woman  ruined  him. 
Take  the  hint — when  the  fish  are  shy, 
Use  the  shimmering  wings  of  a  female  fly. 

When  men  seem  to  have  all  they  can  desire, 

Try  the  game  that  in  Eden  caught  their  sire. 
'Twill  cause  lots  of  heart  trouble,  if  nothing  more, 
And  many  millions  land  on  hell's  barren  shore. 

Now  scatter  out!  be  false  and  true, 

My  vassals  brave,  ye  motley  crew." 

At  this  command,  the  outer  band  of  elves 
From  microbes  small  expand  themselves; 

The  inner  circles  buzz  and  hum, 

And  flutter  upward  to  the  sun. 
At  least,  that  is  what  you  had  said, 
Could  you  have  witnessed  what  we  did, 

As  some  for  spheres,  some  living  clay, 

Each  bitter  demon  hastes  away. 
And  here  I  am.     Now  I  have  told 
You  of  some  things  which  were  of  old, 

Also  of  things  of  recent  date, 

Where  comrades  met,  coerced  by  Fate. 
What  other  things  would  now  you  know  ? 
For  time  is  short  and  I  must  go. 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  235 

Reporter: 

Well;  I  never  thought 
When  you  at  first  the  silence  broke, 

You  would  have  told  of  time  and  space, 

Of  heaven  and  hell,  the  human  race. 
I  only  thought  that  you  might  give 
Some  glimpses  of  the  way  you  live; 

Of  what  you  do  when  you're  around; 

As  never  can  we  catch  the  sound — 
Know  when  you  are  near  or  far  away — 
Though  we  are  interested  every  day. 

Death: 

Is  that  it?     How  was  I  to  know, 
When  rashly  you  approached  me  so. 

But  what  you  wanted  just  to  find 

Some  thought  from  the  angelic  mind ; 

And  that  when  you  were  musing  'round, 
Some  puzzling  problems  you  had  found, 

Such  as :    "Does  highest  liberty  imply 

Temptation's  right  for  us  to  lie?" 

"Was  it  only  thus  that  God  could  make 

The  highest  beings  he  create?" 
"That  the  power  to  do  right  or  wrong 

Marks  creatures  nearer  to  the  throne 

Than  those  to  whom  sin  was  unknown, 

And  virtually  unknowable?" 
Or,  "Was  it  thus  that  sin  must  be 
Exposed  to  all  eternity; 

Only  by  letting  it  expand, 

And  sow  and  reap  on  every  hand?" 
For  God  at  once  the  sin  perceived, 
That  instant  it  was  first  conceived 
In  Satan's  breast. 


236  DEATH    AND   THE  REPORTER. 

Then  must  he  let  it  grow  and  grow, 

Till  each  intelligence  will  know 

And  see  the  awful  thing. 
And  must  the  only  Son  of  God 
Not  only  know,  but  have  the  rod 
Inflicted  on  himself. 

This  is  what  really  staggers  us 

In  pondering  this  awful  muss. 
Oft  in  my  dreaming  I  suspect 
Some  way  perhaps  this  may  connect 

With  Sin's  first  permit  from  the  throne; 

But,  then,  I  may  be  right  or  wrong. 

For  it  was  done  to  save  from  death — 
An  endless  death,  eternal  death; 

Not  a  mere  stopping  of  the  breath, 

But  ever,  ever-living  death; 
A  living  spectacle  to  keep 
Eternal  ages  pure  and  sweet. 

Oh,  do  you  think  the  time  you  live 

Is  long  enough  so  you  can  give 

A  glance  at  vast  eternity? 
Or  even  the  whole  time  that  sin 
Runs  riot  is  worth  reckoning, 
Compared  to  all  eternity? 

Or  do  such  thoughts  ne'er  bother  you, 

And  seem  as  things  dull  and  untrue? 
Or  is  it  as  I  oft  have  thought, 
Even  when  the  truth  to  you  is  brought 

Your  mind  has  been  so  clogged  by  sin, 

Open  it  will  not  to  let  truth  in? 

It  will  not,  or  it  can  not — which? 
Sin  has  your  mind  at  such  a  pitch, 

The  truth  you  can  not  grasp  at  sight; 

Wanton,  you  warp  the  beams  of  light. 


DEATH   AND  THE  REPORTER.  237 

The  highest  grasp  of  mortal  ken 

Hardly  reveals  the  way  to  men; 
Scarcely  reveals  the  way  to  heaven — 
Through  mist  and  doubt  the  glimpse  is  given. 

And  is  it  so?    Yes,  it  must  be. 

You  mortals  scarce  the  truth  can  see; 
Benumbed  by  ages  of  decay, 
You  scarce  can  tell  the  rightful  way; 

Your  highest  grasp,  howe'er  you  strain, 

Can  never  make  the  way  seem  plain; 
Always  a  dread,  always  a  fear, 
A  doubt  no  brainy  grasp  can  clear. 

Yes,  it  is  so.     Your  highest  grasp—- 
Experience gathered  from  the  past, 
All  you  may  read,  what  others  say, 
All  you  can  learn  in  every  way — 

Reveals  not  truth,  that  takes  these  all 

And  more; 

'Tis  only  by  the  gift  of  God 
You  e'er  can  see  the  heavenly  road. 

Were  it  not  so,  then  I  were  base; 

No  more  could  sport  a  demon's  face; 
False  were  I  to  our  devilhood, 
If  what  I  told  might  do  you  good. 

Then  on  with  the  dance,  ye  fireflies  gay, 

Ye  midgets,  living  but  a  day; 
On  with  the  fun,  dance  in  the  light; 
Ephemera,  there  is  no  night; 

And  you  may  even  drug  your  mind, 

If  that  is  how  you  are  inclined. 
And  so  it  is.     I  might  have  kept 
All  to  myself,  and  you  have  slept, 

And  never  dreamed  of  what  you  are — 

But  kept  on  groveling  on  this  star. 


238  DEATH    AND  THE  REPORTER. 

Really,  that  is  the  way  to  go — 
You  need  not  do  the  best  you  know; 

Few  ever  do,  few  ever  will, 

While  Satan's  crew  retain  their  skill. 
Just  keep  on  in  the  good  old  way; 
Let  circumstances  rule  the  day. 

The  night  will  come;  we'll  meet  again. 

Be  good  unto  yourself  till  then. 
Keep  this  to  yourself — don't  write  it  down — 
Or  you  can  not  live  in  any  town. 

To  us  great  Caesar's  ghost,  when  on  the  way  to 
Hades, 

Was  only  worth  one-half  two  common  ghosts ; 
Uncouth,  uncultured,  and  unknown. 

Reporter: 

Well,  that  fellow's  gone. 

I  am  alive,  though  cold  as  stone. 

But  what  I  missed!     I  might  have  scooped 

Enough  to  fill  a  great  big  book. 
All  the  murders  had  found  out, 
And  lots  of  other  stuff,  no  doubt. 

But,  then,  whene'er  I  looked  at  him, 

My  blood  ran  chill!     That  hideous  grin! 
If  ever  I  looked  up  to  talk, 
The  shivers  started  down  my  back. 

'Twas  all  that  I  could  do  to  write — 

I  never  will  forget  this  night. 


A     000  043  741     8 


